by Winton, Tom
I could go on and on, but I think I’ve made my point. When I read the last of your opening chapters, I was desperate to read more. And I will do just that when your captivating book is published. Do I believe that this is a nonfiction story? No, I can’t say that I do. Nevertheless, from the very beginning it clenched the back of my neck, shoved my nose to its pages, and would not let go until I finished.
Thank you, Jack Phelan. I wish you all the best of luck with this.”
Swiveling around in my chair, I looked at my wife. We were both beaming. Our smiles were so wide our cheeks swelled like two ecstatic cherubs. The goose bumps that had risen on my forearms as I read the review were still there. All the anxiety that weighed down my spirit for so long was gone. I felt the small hope I’d fought so hard to keep alive swell and lift like a brightly-colored air balloon. I was rising higher and higher and looking down at all the doubts that had plagued me for months. They shrunk quickly until they became specks. Yes, the doubts were tiny at this joyful moment, but they’d never be totally gone. I had always been a tough-luck person. Nothing ever came easily. And whenever good things happened to me, they’d always felt like too little, too late. But this time was different. And I allowed myself to relish the wonderful news.
“Hot damn!” I said clenching my fists and giving them both one good hard jerk. “We did it, Blanche! We freaking did it!”
But that was only the beginning. I started getting one outstanding review after the next. And after just four weeks, The Real Ernest Hemingway was the number-one-ranked book on the Hall and Farnsworth site. Not only that but it stayed there. It finished in first place at the end of December and was then in contention for the site’s “Book of the Year.” I was riding high. I thought all along that I’d written something special. The reviews the book received only bolstered that belief.
Then there was even more good news.
Right after New Year’s, I began hearing from the literary agents I’d contacted. And by the end of January I’d gotten responses from all but one. Ten agents in just one month wanted to see all or part of my manuscript—four of them in a single day. I couldn’t believe it. I had gotten to know some very good writers on the website— authors who’d been trying to get published for years, and half of them never had a single agent willing to look at their works. I had ten. Though the recession was squeezing us tighter and tighter, Blanche and I didn’t let it drag us down as much. Sure, I’d lost a few of my customers, and those small doubts about the book were still down on the ground eyeballing me, but I was almost positive that at least one agent would be getting back to me with good news.
Yes, things were looking up. And when Blanche and I awoke with the sun on Saturday, February 2nd, my forty-third birthday, we decided to take a ride up to Jonathon Dickinson State Park. Many times over the years we had gone there to stroll along the quiet nature trails and to discuss the good and bad going on in our lives. This time, unlike twenty years earlier when we’d gotten the devastating news that Blanche could never have children, it was all good. And so was the weather. It was one of those rare South Florida days when it was cool enough to put a little bounce in our steps. With both of us wearing hooded sweatshirts, we arrived at the park entrance just before it opened. There were no other visitors waiting to get in, and that was fine with us.
The narrow road was empty as we slowly drove through the miles of scattered pine trees and dense palmettos. Saying little, we scoured the surroundings for wildlife. And with the sun still low on the horizon, we were lucky enough to see three deer up close, one with small antlers. A couple of miles later, as we neared our favorite trail a mile before the road ends at the Loxahatchee River, Blanche pointed up ahead again.
In an excited whisper as if they might hear, she said, “Look . . . over there . . . a whole family of little piggies! There’s the momma, the papa, and four babies.”
I slowed down even more. And as we idled by them, the six black boars just kept on rooting along the grassy shoulder as if we didn’t exist.
A few minutes later we parked on the side of the road. Side by side we started walking down a sandy trail. Not saying a whole lot, we listened to the calls of the blue jays and mockingbirds. We also heard the low-pitched, heart-broken call of a dove. As if it were in mourning, it hooted oo-wah-hoo-oo-oo!
“Sounds just like an owl, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, it does.”
We took a few more steps, and Blanche said, “This is an exciting time, Jack; isn’t it? I mean with the book doing so well.”
“Yup, it sure is. I just hope nothing ruins it. You know how things usually go for us. Just when it finally seems things might be getting better, POOF, everything seems to go all to hell again.”
“Oh come on now,” Blanche said turning to me as we continued to walk. “Don’t start getting negative again. Think positive this time. You’re always so pessimistic.”
“You think I’m pessimistic? No, not really. I don’t think so. Realistic . . . yes! I just can’t be sure of anything until I’ve got it in my hands. But you know what? You’re right. Let’s not go there right now. Let’s be happy this time.”
As we continued to walk, my gaze lingered on my beautiful wife. Her high cheeks were rosy from the chilly air. Her flowing auburn hair hung in waves over her red sweatshirt to the belt loops of her jeans. With the denim snug against her hips, I thought for the thousandth time what a shame it was she couldn’t have had kids. With her fine strong body, she was made to bear children. With her caring, unselfish mind, she would have made as good a mother as any woman on earth. Again I blew all that off. Putting my arm around her waist now, I said, “Damn right, hon. The book is going to make it.”
“I know it’s going to make it, Jack. Hey . . . ,” she suddenly blurted as the smile on her face stretched wider, “who are we going to pick to produce the movie?”
“The movie? Come on. Get out of here.”
“No, really! Why not? It could happen. It should happen. It’s one fabulous story. I can see it on the marquis now, The Real Ernest Hemingway!”
“Yeah,” I chimed playing the game now, “with Kevin Costner playing me.”
“Perfect, he would be great. Who’d play Ernest?”
“I don’t know. Who do you think?”
“How about Stacy Keach?”
“Done deal,” I said with my arm still around her waist and giving her a squeeze. “He’s perfect, too.”
“Alright, we’ve got the two main characters. Who’s going to be our producer? How about Martin Scorcese or Oliver Stone?”
“Now that’s a tough choice. Oh geez . . . come on, we’ve got to stop this now. This is sick. We’re like two kids playing make believe,” I said loving every minute of it.
“Oh Jack,” she said in a more serious tone now as she slid her arm around me, “I pray this all works out.”
“I hope so.”
“It will. I know it will. This book’s going to be big. I’m not just saying that because you’re my husband either. Some of those words are gilded with literary greatness.”
“Gilded with literary greatness!” I said stopping in my tracks and stepping to the side. “And I’m supposed to be a writer? Maybe you missed your calling. Maybe you ought to pick up a pen and see what comes out of it.”
Looking down at her pink and white sneakers and actually seeming a little embarrassed by the compliment, Blanche waved me off. “Oh stop. I’m no writer. I could never write an entire book.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, kid. You ought to give it a crack sometime. Just try to write one good sentence. Then go from there. That’s what Ernest told me.”
“Who knows? Maybe someday.”
After mulling the idea for a short moment she changed the subject. “Jack, how do you think he’s doing?”
“Who?”
“Ernest.”
“How bad can he be doing? He’s up there,” I said giving my head a little jerk upwards. “But you know what? I miss h
im. I really, really liked him.”
With melancholic looks on our faces, we both looked up the trail now. Just forty yards from the end . . . it was almost time to turn back around.
“I’ve hoped he’d come back down, you know, pay me a short visit or something. But he hasn’t.”
“Think about it, Jack. I’m sure he would have had he been able to. But just as you told me, the only reason he came in the first place was to meet you. That and because it was the anniversary of his death.”
“I know. But I still miss the guy.”
Right then, the very second I said I missed Ernest, something strange happened, something very, very strange.
“Oh my God, Jack,” Blanche blurted, “look at that!” And both of us froze mid-stride—still as stone statues.
Just ten yards in front of us something had come out of the trailside high grass. In all the years we’d been coming to the park, we’d never seen a bobcat. We’d always kept an eye out for them but never once saw one.
“He stopped right there . . .” I said in an excited whisper, “right in the middle of the trail.
One of the world’s most elusive animals was looking at us. Instead of running off back into the palmettos, it was staring straight at us. It was an electrifying encounter yet at the same time subtle. Like most bobcats I’d seen in pictures, this one was brownish with black bars on its front legs. It also had the characteristic black tufts atop its pointy ears. But this one was different. This male was old, and it had a stocky body. And for some reason, the white around its mouth and chin put me to mind of Ernest’s white moustache and beard.
“Arrr,” it cried out in a surprisingly calm, friendly tone.
We could only stare at him.
Again, “Arrr.”
Then, as if it had accomplished what it had intended, it slowly turned its head away and padded back into the brush.
“Jack . . . you don’t think?”
Silently I rotated my head. Then in a low, reverent voice as if we’d just witnessed miracle, I slowly said, “I don’t know, Blanche. I just don’t know. After my time with Ernest, I believe anything is possible.”
We talked about that cat for the rest of the weekend. We also talked about the future of my book. Enough time had passed since I’d queried the literary agents. Expecting my first response any day, I debated what I’d do if the first agent to get back happened to be one of my last choices. Would I contact all the others and tell them I had an offer? Should I give them a week or two to read the book and make up their minds? I didn’t know what the proper etiquette was in the publishing industry. So I went to bed Sunday night thinking I’d go online soon as I got a chance. Maybe I could learn a thing or two about how things were done.
But none of that would be necessary. The very next day I heard back from the agent at the very top of my list. And she was one of New York’s biggest.
Chapter 20
I had just walked in the door. Stinking of perspiration and grass clippings, I took off the wide-brimmed straw hat I always wore to work. As soon as I laid the goofy looking thing on the coffee table, Blanche came rushing in from the kitchen. She looked so excited I thought she’d burst. With both hands behind her back, she planted a good one on my lips then stepped back.
“Guess what came in the mail today,” she said bobbing on her toes like a small child on Christmas morning.
It hadn’t been a good day for me. I was tired, hot, and as always, filthy. Not only that but I’d lost two more accounts. When I answered Blanche, it was with as much enthusiasm as a condemned man heading for the gallows.
“I give up. What came in the mail?”
“A response letter from an agent!” she blurted whipping it around and wiggling the envelope in front of my eyes.
“And it’s not from just any agent. It’s from thee Sarah Roundhouse . . . your first choice.”
“Uh oh,” I said, taking it and holding it up to the late afternoon light coming in the side window. “I can’t see anything. Guess I’d better open it.”
Ripping an end off the envelope and pulling the letter out the side, I said, “Well, at least it’s not one of those printed rejection cards they supposedly send most of the time.”
This was it. Seven months it had taken to get to this point. I’d lived, slept, drank, ate, and breathed the book.
“I feel like we should have a drum roll or something,” I said as I unfolded the white paper. Then I read it.
Dear Mr. Phelan, Thank you for giving me the opportunity to look at your work. While your idea does sound intriguing, I’m afraid I am not confident enough that The Real Ernest Hemingway is something that would appeal to the publishers with whom I presently work. Please keep in mind that my decision is subjective. There may very well be other agents who will be very enthusiastic about your work. But, because I lack that enthusiasm, I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass.
Sincerely,
Sarah Roundhouse.
To say I was devastated would be like calling the attack on Pearl Harbor somewhat disconcerting. Like an entire squadron of flaming Kamikazes, all my high hopes came crashing down on me at once.
“Blanche,” I said slowly looking up from the letter to her eyes, “all that hard work! Two drafts, hundreds of hours racking my brain, a thousand spell checks, a thesaurus that’s half worn out, all our bullshit dreams, even the four days with Hemingway . . . where the fuck did any of it get me?”
“Oh come on, Jack, don’t curse like that. It’s not the end, honey. It’s just the beginning. Maybe not the beginning we’d hoped for but just the beginning all the same. Sarah Roundhouse isn’t the only agent selling books in New York. She’s not the final say to anything. You’re still a million miles from failing. Come on now!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said with my head slung low. “Just let me go, hon. I want to take a shower.”
“Go ahead. I’ll have a nice, cold beer waiting for you.”
Already slogging my way to the bathroom by now, I said over my shoulder, “You better have a twelve pack.”
I didn’t drink a twelve pack that night but came pretty close. We sat on the porch till well after dark, and the whole time Blanche tried to sooth my wrecked spirit. All her consoling, along with the beer, did eventually dull some of my disappointment but certainly not all of it. There was now a depressing dark frame surrounding my every thought. What little hope I had left was jammed somewhere in it, too, but it was so overshadowed by worry it was barely discernible.
That first rejection was the beginning of a trend. Sarah Roundhouse would not be the last agent to reject my book. The next three nixed it as well. All of them came in the mail that same week, and each felt like a bucket of cold water had been heaved on my smoldering dreams. My inner fire was all but out.
For the rest of that week and the following weekend, a deep concern filled the mental void left by those vanishing hopes. I didn’t mention it to Blanche. “What if, just what if I fail with this book?” I asked myself. “Will He end me? Will I get into some kind of fatal accident or simply fade into thin air? Is that all this book thing is, one final chance?”
The uncertainty was maddening. All week long while on my rider mower, those doomsday thoughts sapped my energy and numbed my senses. On Thursday I lost yet another account, and on Friday Blanche came home with more wonderful news. She told me her bosses might have to let her go. They, too, were losing accounts. It wasn’t definite, but the best case scenario was they’d have to shave even more hours from her work schedule. When I read the paper before going to work each morning, I’d fume. Everything around me seemed to be collapsing. Prices of everything from potatoes to gasoline to new cars were going through the roof. Our vehicles were getting old and tired. I felt down-in-the-dirt defeated. For the first time in my life, crime was beginning to look like a viable option.
I started thinking about stealing. I was sick and tired of watching Blanche and me go down, down, down. It didn’t even matter that I now knew there was
such a thing as life after death. I’d never believed in it before I went into that coma, yet my entire adult life I’d still walked the straight and narrow. But things were different now. Something needed to be done. Blanche and I had always played by the rules—jumped through all the necessary hoops—and for what? To end up where we were? Nuh, uh, I thought. That’s not going to happen. I’ve got to do something.
Chapter 21
Blanche continued to look for a full-time job, but her efforts were fruitless. I’d gone online looking for part-time work myself, but that was just as hopeless. The whole country was in a deep recession. And Florida was buried at the bottom of it. Every time I searched job sites, it was always the same tired story. All I seemed to be qualified for were eight-dollar-an-hour jobs at big-box stores or fast food joints. There was no way that was going to happen. I wasn’t about to sell an hour of my lifetime for a paltry six dollars and fifty cents after taxes. I refused to trade two hours labor for three measly gallons of gasoline. I would not work one fourth of a day just to drive my pickup truck fifty miles.
Driving to and from work each day, I felt my fear building. I noticed the lines in front of the food bank were getting longer and longer. But there was something else going on that scared me even more than the bread lines. Each time I passed one of the three banks along the way, I began to eyeball them. And every time I went by the gun shop, I turned my head as well.