Tell Me a Story

by Cassandra King Conroy

  No calls came from Pat during the holidays, however, not even to wish me a Merry Christmas. So I was caught off guard when the new year, 1997, kicked in and he called to say that he’d be coming to Alabama in February. First, he was speaking at Auburn University in Montgomery (AUM), then going on to the Birmingham “literary thing” where we met two years ago. He wasn’t presenting; he’d only agreed to come so he could introduce Anne Rivers Siddons at the awards dinner. Since he remembered me saying that I loved Anne’s books, he wanted to let me know that she was getting the award Pat’d gotten when we met. Would he see me at either place? he asked.

  “Ah . . . maybe,” I said, hedging. No way I’d tell him that, yet again, I couldn’t afford to attend the writers’ conference. Even with the new job, better pay, and living frugally, I barely scraped by on my own. It was my fault: I’d stubbornly (and stupidly) refused to take anything from my ex in the divorce agreement. Because I still helped my youngest son with college expenses not covered by his scholarship, there were plenty of times when I wondered how I’d manage.

  “I’m not sure about the conference,” I told Pat, “but I can probably make it to the talk in Montgomery. I’ll let you know, okay?” Because the event was held at a university, I figured it’d be free.

  Then he said something unexpected. “Maybe we can have dinner together next time I’m in your area.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’d be fun.”

  “Really?” There was genuine surprise in his voice. “I’m no good at asking women out.”

  Okay, you’d think I would’ve known then, right? He had flat out said it, for the first time. He was asking me out. Instead, I found it touching that a man as successful as Pat would admit to being shy around women. If it was advice from a female friend he wanted, though, I was hardly the one to ask. I’d made too much of a mess of my own relationships to advise anyone else on how to handle theirs. I hung up, bemused by Pat’s contradictions. On the surface he was affable and lighthearted, always in a joking and self-deprecating manner. But I’d read his books and knew a much darker side lurked beneath, no matter how he tried to cover it up. Each of his five semiautobiographical books dealt with disturbing subjects: abuse, both systematic and domestic; rape and violence; mental illness and suicide; horribly dysfunctional families.

  I called him a few days later to say that even though I wouldn’t be attending the conference, I’d come to his speech in Montgomery if it fell on a night I didn’t have classes. But he needed to let me know when the speech was. As his phone rang it hit me that I had never called him before, except that first time in my office when I returned his call about the blurb. It felt strangely awkward doing so; women of my generation didn’t call men friends except on business. Thankfully he wasn’t in and I was able to leave a message.

  No surprise, I heard from Pat only once before his speech, and only on my machine: “Aw crap, King-Ray—I forgot you’re in class, sharing your vast knowledge of lit-uh-rah-ture with your adoring students. I wanted to talk to you about my trip to your fair state, fill you in on some of the details, but . . . you ain’t there. So. I’ll call you back, okay?” He didn’t.

  I didn’t know the date of Pat’s speech, and in those days, information wasn’t readily available on the internet. But surprisingly, the week of the speech a colleague stuck her head in my door to ask if I wanted to ride with her and a couple others to AUM (ah, fate!). “Pat Conroy’s giving a speech at AUM and I heard that you’re friends with him,” she said.

  I’d avoided talking about Pat with my new colleagues because it felt like name-dropping. But at a talk I’d given not long after my move, someone in the audience asked about his blurb on my jacket cover, and how I’d “pulled it off.” The new sassy me, freed of the preacher’s wife image, resisted the urge to wink and say, You’d be surprised. Instead I related the story of meeting Pat at the Southern Voices conference, and the audience laughed in sympathy at my klutziness. On the ride to hear Pat’s speech in Montgomery, one of the women asked if he and I were close friends. No, we were more like acquaintances, I answered. Not wanting to sound coy, I added that we talked occasionally, but I’d only met him once.

  The speech was held at AUM’s basketball gymnasium, which indicated that they expected a big crowd. Even so, my companions and I were shocked at the number of people there, shocked that we barely found a place to sit. The bleachers were full and chairs were set up on the gym floor as if for graduation. We were then pleasantly surprised that Pat’s speech was so entertaining; being at a university, we’d expected a scholarly discourse, I suppose. I shouldn’t have been surprised; his calls were light and funny, but I always felt a deep undercurrent of melancholy beneath his jovial demeanor. There was no trace of anything of that nature in his talk, which had the audience in stitches the whole time. He even made his family dysfunction humorous. Describing his childhood memories of his father’s arrival home, he said his father “got out of the car with his knuckles dragging the ground” and his sister called out to her siblings: “Everybody hide—Godzilla’s home!”

  After Pat’s talk, my companions stood for a couple of hours in a very long line to have their books signed, but I hadn’t thought to bring mine. While watching the line inch slowly along, I spotted a writer friend in the front row of the bleachers and went to sit by him. I had no way of knowing that he was Pat’s host for the evening. We were seated close to the action but angled in a way that we could see only the backs of Pat’s fans as they gathered around the table. I caught a glimpse of Pat every so often and was surprised to see him laughing and talking even as he signed.

  I poked my writer friend with an elbow. “I couldn’t do that in a million years, could you? Talk to folks while signing books? No telling what I’d write.”

  My friend smiled in agreement then turned his head to study me. “It’s funny to see you here, girl. When I picked Pat up at the airport this afternoon, first thing he asked was if I knew you and if I’d read your book. He said y’all were friends and that he was looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh and motion to the hundreds of seats in the gym. “He’s got better vision than me, then,” I said. “I couldn’t pick out anyone in this mob.”

  My friend shrugged. “He’ll see you at the reception. You know where it is, or do you need to follow us?” When I told him I’d come with some other folks and we had to get back, he inclined his head toward Pat with a frown. “Aw, Pat’s gonna be disappointed to hear that. Go break in line and tell him that you’re here, at least.”

  That was the last thing I wanted to do, so I asked if he had any paper. I’d write Pat a note that he could give him at the reception, I said. He searched his pockets but didn’t even have a card; I’d brought my little wallet-purse and had nothing either. It took forever but I finally got a scrap of paper from someone, wrote a “so sorry I missed you!” note, signed it King-Ray, then made my way back to the front row. My writer friend was nowhere to be seen.

  I stood flummoxed for a moment, not sure what I should do. My traveling companions were almost to the signing table; I could ask them to hand him the note. I decided I was being ridiculous. Note in hand, I crept up behind Pat’s table, waited to catch him as the next person in line made their way forward, then quickly passed him the note. He looked up startled and seemed genuinely pleased to see me. After two years, I wondered if he’d even recognize me.

  “King-Ray! I’m so glad you made it,” he said as he grabbed my hand and squeezed it in greeting. “I’ll see you afterward, okay? Come to the reception.”

  I gave him a little wave and scurried off, not wanting to hold up things to explain that I couldn’t stay. Everyone was already staring daggers at the brazen hussy who dared hold up the line even for a couple of seconds. Red-faced, I made my way past the line and went to wait for the others by the box office. On the ride home, they jabbered in excitement about how much they’d enjoyed the event, what a great speaker Pat was, and how friendly
he was to everybody in the line. We were halfway home when the driver glanced my way and asked if I’d even gotten to say hello to Pat. I told her that I was able to get a note to him.

  “We should’ve gone to the reception!” she exclaimed. “You could’ve introduced us to him.” The others chimed in, dismayed that it hadn’t occurred to them before. The woman sitting next to me in the back seat grabbed my arm. “If he ever comes to visit you in Gadsden, promise you’ll invite us over, okay?”

  I smiled. “Now there’s a promise I can safely make.” The way our wires had crossed this time, I couldn’t imagine he and I ever meeting face-to-face again.

  * * *

  It was late the next night, after I’d finished grading essays and gotten ready for bed, when Pat called to invite me to the awards dinner in Birmingham the following evening. He’d obviously forgotten that I wasn’t attending the conference.

  “Hey! Why don’t you come with me to that dinner thing they’re having Saturday night?” he said without bothering to identify himself. Not that he needed to; I’d recognize that upbeat voice of his anywhere.

  “Oh! Well, I-I’m . . . ah . . . not registered for the conference,” I stammered. “And I’m pretty sure you have to have an invitation to attend the dinner.”

  He laughed. “So? I’m inviting you. Aw, c’mon, King-Ray. Don’t make me go by myself. I’m a stranger here, remember?”

  I agreed to attend with him, and we arranged to meet in the lobby of his Birmingham hotel, where the participants were being bused to the dinner. When I arrived, Pat stood by the door watching for me and called out, “King-Ray—you made it!” as soon as I entered. I went to him smiling and we hugged like long-lost friends. He stayed close by my side until we got in the bus, even when I stepped away to greet folks I recognized from other literary occasions. Oddly enough, instead of feeling weird to be face-to-face with him after two years had gone by, it felt like the two years had only been a couple of days. He looked the same, the cherubic round face and unruly white hair, those twinkly blue eyes. Instead of the rumpled khakis I remembered from our first meeting, he was properly attired and quite distinguished in a dark suit and white dress shirt.

  As gallant as I remembered him being, Pat kindly told me that I looked a lot better than he recalled.

  “Hmm. I’m not sure how to take that,” I said, and we laughed together.

  It was my first experience with Pat’s astonishing blarney, but it certainly wouldn’t be my last. Stranger, my arse, I thought, as he dragged me around to meet friend after friend, despite his having told me that he’d be all alone and pitiful if I didn’t go with him. I met his buddies from Atlanta, Cliff and Cynthia Graubart, and felt as though I knew them since both Pat and Anne Siddons had used them as characters in their books. Then I was thrilled to meet Anne Rivers Siddons and her husband, Heyward. Never could I have imagined that we’d end up becoming close friends one day. Everyone was friendly, but I was uneasy. It was a fancy-dress affair given exclusively for the honored guests. This time I was properly attired in a black velveteen pantsuit, so it wasn’t that. I just hoped and prayed Pat had let them know that he’d invited me.

  He hadn’t. Red-faced, the librarian in charge pulled me aside at the restaurant to confess that Pat had “forgotten” to tell them he was bringing a guest. There was no room at his table, which they’d crammed with big donors. Did I mind terribly sitting elsewhere? A leggy blonde with Kim Basinger–like hair was an associate of Pat’s (his publicist, I guessed; she didn’t say) and she was standing nearby. The librarian gestured frantically to her for help, and it was arranged that I’d sit with her.

  The next obstacle was Pat, who scowled and said no way; he’d look like a heel if they put his guest at another table. I leaned in and whispered, “Pat, listen—I’ve been on library boards before and they need you to woo their donors. I’m perfectly happy sitting elsewhere.” Pat scowled but agreed, ambling off to the head table with the relieved librarian steering the way.

  During the predinner mingle, I purposely detached myself from Pat to chat with other guests, not wanting him to feel obligated to stick tight just because he’d brought me along. Occasionally he’d show up and ask if I was okay, which I found surprisingly thoughtful. I began to form a different picture of the famous writer who’d somehow befriended me. It amused me to see him as a chick magnet, for one thing. It was as if Fabio had shown up, the way women flocked around him. But Pat didn’t appear to be a womanizer, unlike others of his breed that I’d heard about. Instead he just seemed to genuinely enjoy the company of women. He was certainly a study: a chivalrous, old-fashioned man who fairly radiated magnetism and charm. I wasn’t unaware of what a dangerous combination that could be. From time to time our eyes would meet and I’d give him a little wave to let him know that all was well.

  It seemed that every time Pat and I got together, a librarian ended up pulling us apart, and that evening was no exception. (Got to be a metaphor there somewhere!) After the dinner, everyone lined up to board the bus back to the hotel, and Pat sought me out. We were about to board when Linda, the head librarian who would later become a dear friend of ours, approached Pat. She was literally wringing her hands as she cried, “Oh, Pat—you’ve got to help me!” She looked absolutely frantic. “One of our poets has disappeared.”

  The rustic, mountain-themed restaurant sat in the midst of a dense hardwood forest; evidently the poet had wandered off while everyone waited for the bus. Pat shrugged and said to Linda, “One less poet in the world doesn’t sound like a bad thing to me.”

  “This is not a joke,” Linda hissed as she pulled Pat away. “Come help me find him.”

  The bus driver waited until Linda and Pat reappeared with the slumped-over poet, one on each side of him. As they helped the guy into the bus, I heard Linda telling the others that the poor thing was sick. Tugging on Pat’s arm, I whispered, “Oh dear! Is it bad?”

  Pat snorted. “Sick, my ass. Drunk as a skunk. Never known a poet who could hold his liquor.”

  As soon as Pat and I got on the bus, the Kim Basinger–looking publicist appeared. Pulling me into a seat next to her, she motioned Pat toward a seat across from us where a man jumped up eagerly and held out his hand. Kim Basinger introduced the man to Pat then said to me sotto voce, “Please forgive me. That man’s a Conroy fanatic and begged for a few minutes with him.”

  “He has an amazing fan base, doesn’t he?” I said.

  She nodded wearily. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  I sure wouldn’t, I thought, stifling a giggle. It’d been a thrill when my book had gone into a second printing, but I wasn’t likely to ever experience anything like the hordes of swooning fans I’d seen around Pat.

  Back at the hotel, Pat and I reunited in the lobby and smiled at each other ruefully. “God, what a night,” he said with a groan. He appeared to be wiped out. Another thing I’d learned by watching him in action: when you’re at the top, everyone wants a piece of you. It had to be utterly exhausting.

  “We didn’t get to spend any time together, King-Ray.” Pat frowned, then peered down the hall. “The bar’s closed, but I’ve got some booze upstairs. Let’s have a drink and talk for a few minutes, at least.” When I hesitated, he held up his hands. “Don’t worry. I won’t put the make on you. I’m too damn tired.”

  I laughed and told him it wasn’t that. It was late, and I had a two-hour drive ahead of me. Pat looked alarmed. “Oh, hell no. You’re not driving home this time of the night, King-Ray. There’s no need to anyway. I’ve got a room for you. C’mon—I’ll show you.”

  “I don’t even have a toothbrush!” I protested as I began to back out the lobby door. “Really, I’ll be fine.” With an exasperated sigh, Pat marched over and took my arm to stop me. “Okay, okay,” I said, holding up a hand in surrender. “I won’t drive all the way to Gadsden. I’ll crash with my friends in Montevallo instead.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How far?”

  Before I could lie
and tell him only a few miles, Pat sighed again and led me rather forcefully to the elevator, where he refused to listen to my protests. “Looks like I’ve finally met someone as stubborn as I am,” he muttered as he jabbed in the floor number.

  On the top floor, he showed me the setup of his two-storied suite. The bedroom was upstairs, and the living area downstairs had a king-sized pullout sofa. “See? And the upstairs bedroom has a door with a lock,” he said, pointing. “So your virtue will remain intact. I’ll take the sofa—”

  I stopped him. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ll stay, but under one condition. No—make that two.”

  For some reason that tickled him, and he raised his eyebrows with an impish look on his face. “Here’s the deal,” I said. “I won’t take your bedroom, but I’ll sleep on the sofa.” He groaned but asked what the second condition was. “You cannot ever tell anyone that I stayed here,” I told him.

  Pat was still chuckling when he called the front desk for a toothbrush, and I ducked into the bathroom when they delivered it. After they’d gone, I came out to see Pat rubbing his face wearily. “Go to bed,” I ordered. We hadn’t had our nightcaps, but he needed sleep more. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  He was too exhausted to argue, so he said good night with a little wave and started up the stairs. When he reached the top, I couldn’t resist calling out, “Hey, Pat—don’t forget to lock your door!”

  When I curled up on the sofa with a blanket, not bothering to pull it out, I realized how tired I was. A two-hour midnight drive would’ve been stupid. Dozing off, I wondered why it mattered so much to me that no one knew I was sharing Pat’s fancy suite. I was fifty-two, divorced, and hardly a prude. I’d never been one to sleep around but had friends who did, and I’d always figured it wasn’t anybody’s business but theirs. When would I ever stop caring what other people thought? And why was I so obsessed with keeping up appearances? It was an unfortunate trait that my mother had drilled into me. My father sure didn’t give a jolly good damn what anyone thought of him and never had. Before I fell into an exhausted sleep, I decided that things were going to change. I was sick of myself—or I would’ve been if I had any idea who I was. All my life I’d tried to live up to what others expected of me: first my mother, then my husband and the good folks of the church. I couldn’t do it anymore.