by Watt Key
What was your first job?
My brothers and sisters and I always had chores assigned to us that we didn’t get paid for. My first duties were emptying the wastebaskets around the house, feeding various pets (we had lots of animals), and raking and mowing the lawn. I landed my first paying job when I was about eight years old. I was the fly killer for the snack bar at a resort not far from my home. I killed them with a washcloth, stored them in a paper cup, and received ten cents per fly. As soon as I would get enough dimes, I would cash in my pay for a drink to quench my thirst.
How did you celebrate publishing your first book?
My wife and I went to the Mexican restaurant up the street. It was a fairly low-key celebration. It took a while for me to accept that I’d gotten a legitimate book deal. You may have seen the episode of The Waltons when John-Boy gets scammed by the vanity publisher. He told all of his friends and family that he’d gotten a book deal and they had a big celebration for him. Then he got a letter from the publisher asking him how many of his books he wanted to pay them to print. It was a scam. This exact thing happened to me years before I sold Alabama Moon and it was very embarrassing and eye-opening.
Where do you write your books?
After college, I built a small camp several miles into the swamp that you can only get to by boat. I made it from lumber that washed up on the beach after a hurricane. It took me nearly every weekend for a year to complete it. I develop and outline most of my ideas up there. The bulk of my actual writing is done at home in a spare bedroom that doubles as my study.
Where do you find inspiration for your writing?
I’m not always inspired to write. Fortunately, I have a backlog of stories in my head that I feel have to be written whether I’m in the mood for it or not. I often tell people that writing is like an addiction to me. I liken this addiction to people who jog every day. I don’t feel good about myself unless I’m doing it. Most of the time, it’s a very enjoyable process. Sometimes, it’s not. But I decided long ago that I was supposed to be a writer, so that’s what I do.
What sparked your imagination for Fourmile?
I’ve always admired the simple tightness and structure of classic Western novels. I wanted to create a story structured the same way, yet in a contemporary setting.
As a kid, did you grow up with a dog in the family?
I had two dogs as a kid, both of them strays that I adopted. The one closest to me, I named Joe. He was very similar to Foster’s dog in Fourmile. I found him in a giant swamp across the highway from our house and he became my friend for several years. He kept me company while I made tree forts and traps in the woods. I fed Joe at the house, but he lived outside and roamed freely. He usually appeared next to me somewhere between my back door and the swamp. One day, I crossed the highway alone and a few minutes later, he came after me. I heard tires squealing and ran back to find a car pulled into the ditch and Joe lying dead on the roadside. At first, I was very emotional and didn’t want to touch him. I ran back home to tell my father. My younger siblings were also very attached to Joe, so Dad told me to bury him before they saw him lying there. This made me feel very much a man of the family and helped me through the ordeal. I grew up a lot through that episode. Joe is buried in the swamp where I found him.
Gary serves as a sort of father figure for Foster, but in the end, he isn’t the person that Foster thinks he is. Despite that, do you think Gary was a positive influence on him?
We see in the story that Gary had a lot of potential to be a good man and father. But he made some decisions in life that were either bad or unfortunate, and he’s on a path of self-destruction. During his time at Fourmile, Gary mentors Foster as he would have done his own son. In the end, Foster learns that his hero is flawed, but their time together has had an overwhelmingly positive impact on his life. And these flaws help Foster understand why this man can’t ultimately be the person he needs.
What was the most difficult scene to write?
Certainly the shootout at the end of the novel. With so much violence in entertainment these days, it’s tricky to impress people without an overload of it. I find myself thinking of ways to do these scenes so that the violence is not gratuitous, yet still done in an original way that is interesting to the reader and adds to the story.
Did any particular Westerns have an effect on your writing style for Fourmile?
Fourmile was modeled after Shane, my favorite Western.
Foster and Gary part ways at the end of Fourmile. Do you think that they’d ever cross paths again?
I don’t think so. I see Gary as an emotional and mental time bomb. He was able to hide that from Foster and do some good while he was at Fourmile farm. At the end of the story, Gary has “fixed” Foster, but he hasn’t fixed himself. My instincts tell me that it’s too late for Gary to ever become the man he wanted to be and that Foster and Linda need.
When you finish a book, who reads it first?
My wife, Katie, reads my first drafts most of the time. I’ve learned that if I don’t want her to read it, it’s probably not ready. Then my agent reads it, and finally my editor.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
I’m a night owl. But to feel good and productive, I have to have eight hours of sleep, no more, no less. I usually write from about eight until eleven at night and get up at seven in the morning.
What’s your idea of the best meal ever?
Rib eye steak. Egg noodles with real butter and garlic. Real mashed potatoes without gravy. Cream cheese spinach. Brewed iced tea with lemon, real sugar, and mint. Lemon pie without the meringue for dessert.
Where do you go for peace and quiet?
My swamp camp.
What makes you laugh out loud?
Mark Twain.
What do you value most in your friends?
Honesty. Originality.
What is your favorite TV show?
I don’t recommend television. One day I was driving through Mississippi and came across a folk artist with a yard full of his scrap iron creations. Out front was a sign that read “Look what I did while you were watching TV.” I like his attitude.
What’s the best advice you have ever received about writing?
Continue to write even when you don’t feel like it. If you’re a real writer, that’s what you have to do. I knew this on an instinctive level for many years, but never heard it described as well as what a painter friend of mine told me. I was watching him create an oil painting of an outdoor scene. He was doing his work in a small, rocking boat, crouched beneath an umbrella in the pouring rain. I remarked that he was the most dedicated artist I’d ever met. He responded by telling me that he wasn’t an artist, he was a professional painter.
Read on for Hal’s story in
DIRT ROAD HOME
1
Late Sunday morning Officer Pete delivered me in chains to the Hellenweiler Boys’ Home in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I was officially “property of the state” and sentenced to live there until I was eighteen. This place would be hard time, especially since I was considered a problem case and an escape risk. But I figured I could handle it. I’d already done two years in the Pinson Boys’ Home. Besides, I didn’t plan on sticking around long.
There were two places a ward of the state could go after Pinson: Live Oak and Hellenweiler. Everybody talked about Live Oak like it was a vacation. Nobody talked about Hellenweiler. It was for the repeat offenders and trouble kids. I was both and I’d known for a long time that Live Oak wasn’t in my future. The only reason I was three months late was because it took them that long to catch me after my escape. And the only reason they caught me was because I turned myself in to help out a friend. Now he was gone and I had to face a whole new set of friends and enemies. Except this time I was no longer the biggest, oldest boy at the home. I was a new fish.
I shuffled toward the guardhouse ahead of Officer Pete, the leg shackles restricting my steps and bruising my ankles. In the distance I hea
rd a church bell. Sundays were supposed to be the beginning of the week, but they’d always felt like the end of it to me. All I could think about were the days ahead as dread puddled in the pit of my stomach. This time the dread was so strong it made me dizzy. I blinked my eyes and swallowed against the awful feeling. Then I took a deep breath and savored the smell of the pines and honeysuckle in the spring air. I listened to the robins calling and rustling in the hedge beside me. It would be a while before I’d sense any of these things again.
When we got to the front gate I heard a buzz and then a click as the electronic lock released and the gate slid open. Hellenweiler sat in the middle of a five-acre yard of mostly bare dirt and a few small oak trees. Beyond the ten-foot wire fence was a field where nothing was planted. I guessed it was plowed to bare dirt to give the guards a clear view of anyone trying to escape. There was almost two hundred yards of open ground before you got to the trees.
You would never hear an adult call Hellenweiler a prison. It was always referred to as a “boys’ home.” But to look at the one-story cinder-block compound from the outside, there was no question what the place was modeled after. I had an idea what I’d find on the inside as well, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I already had the feeling that Pinson had been a preschool compared to this place. This was a high-security jailhouse to lock down eighty bad boys.
I won’t tell you that I wasn’t nervous. I was, but not because I was scared of how they would treat me. I’d been through bad and I could go through worse. I was worried about my attitude. I knew I had it in me to be a problem. I knew I was hardheaded, with a temper set on a hair trigger. If I wanted to get out of there before I was eighteen, I had to play it cool. Real cool.
We passed through two more electronic gates before arriving in the receiving area. The sickening smell of disinfectant and bleach hit me like it did the first day I walked into Pinson. But I would get used to it again. I would get used to the hospital-blue walls and the rotten food and the buzzers and the snapping of wall clocks marking time in the silence. There was nothing natural about the place.
Officer Pete guided me to the counter.
“This the Mitchell kid?” the receiving guard asked.
“Yeah,” Officer Pete replied. “Henry Mitchell, Jr.”
The guard put some forms on the counter and Officer Pete completed them and slid them back. Then he turned to me and began removing my restraints. When he was done he tucked the chains under his arm and studied me. He was stern, but I knew there was a lot of good in him that he didn’t like to show. “Keep your chin up,” he finally said.
I nodded.
He stared at me a few seconds more like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. There wasn’t anything left to say. Finally he turned to the guard. “All yours,” he said.
I watched Officer Pete leave until the door shut behind him. As soon as the lock clicked my new life began.
“Face forward!” the guard shouted.
I jumped to attention.
“You in my face, boy?”
I shook my head.
“You better stand back behind that red line!”
I looked at the floor and saw the red tape. I backed up until I was behind it.
“And you better get rid of that attitude before Mr. Fraley gets rid of it for you,” the guard said.
“I don’t have an attitude.”
“I’ll bet you don’t,” he said. “I’ve read your file. Mister tough guy. We’ll see about that.”
I didn’t respond. I knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere. I took a deep breath and stared at a spot on the wall just over his head.
“Strip down.”
I quickly took off everything except my briefs and socks and faced him again.
“I said strip down!”
I pulled down my briefs and peeled off my socks and straightened up.
He pointed to a trash barrel against the wall. “Throw it all in there.”
I scooped them off the floor and tossed the wad of them into the trash barrel.
“Put your forehead on the wall, turn around, and spread your cheeks.”
I did as he said while he inspected me for contraband and scratched information on my receiving forms.
After what seemed like forever he said, “Follow the yellow line through that door to your left.”
I entered cleanup, where another guard was pouring some liquid from a jug into a chemical sprayer that he set down in the center of the room. Four showerheads stuck out of the wall to my right. Against the opposite wall were four stools and the same number of electric razors hanging overhead. Another door exited the rear of the room.
“Tommy, get the fleas off this boy,” the reception guard said over my shoulder as he guided me onto one of the stools. He left and I heard the door lock behind him.
It took less than a minute for the second guard to give me what the boys called an onion head. Then he made me stand up and wait while he fiddled with the sprayer in silence. He screwed the top on and began pumping it full of pressure.
“Into the shower,” the guard finally said. “Do not turn it on until I tell you to. Face me, close your eyes, and cover them with your hands.”
I walked under the first showerhead and covered my eyes. After a few seconds I heard the hiss of the sprayer and felt the cold insecticide mist over me. Then he told me to turn around and I felt the same sensation on my back. After the chemical had time to work, he told me to turn on the shower and scrub myself. I opened my eyes just in time to see a bar of state soap tossed at my feet.
When I was done showering the guard gave me a small towel to dry off. Then he gave me a T-shirt, boxer shorts, and shower slides. I was issued an orange jumpsuit with H.J.H. stenciled on the back and #135 on the front. The instant I was zipped up he ordered me to stand on the yellow line again.
“Walk the yellow brick road into the hall,” he said. “When it stops you’ll be at a set of double doors. Go through those doors and you’ll be home. Keep on and you’ll come to the mess room. Lunch is almost over but you might be able to pick up a bite before they run you out. After lunch a guard will take you through orientation and tell you what you need to know. Understand?”
I nodded. I was stunned and couldn’t reply even if I’d wanted to. Everything was happening so fast. But I guess that’s what they wanted. They didn’t want you to have time to think about anything but what they told you.
I followed the yellow line out into the hall. I soon came to the large set of double steel doors. When I pushed through them fifty more feet of hall lay between me and a second set of doors. I could suddenly hear the noise of the mess room. I took a deep breath and kept moving, pushing through the second set of doors.
When I stepped into the mess room, I expected everyone to stop what they were doing and stare at the new fish. That’s what they’d do at Pinson. But I noticed only a few boys glance my way over all the commotion. I walked against the wall, around to where the food trays were. When I slid my tray in front of the server, she handed my plate over the counter and watched me.
“Better be quick about it,” she said.
I took the tray, set a paper cup of red juice on it, and went to look for an open seat. There were five long columns of tables. The tables on the outside of each column, the ones against the walls, were mostly full. Then the next column of tables was completely empty and only two boys sat at the middle table. One of them was a giant white kid with crew-cut hair and a cookie-dough face. He was hunched over his tray, eating slowly and keeping his eyes down. The other was a black kid with wide eyes and kinky hair. Something in the way he looked at me told me I was welcome to join them.
As I started for the middle table I saw Preston sitting with some older boys against the wall to my left. He’d come from Pinson eight months before. We’d never had much to say to each other. He was a sneaky little arson and I’d never had any respect for him and he knew it. Back then he would have been scared of me. Back then I would have calle
d him a wuss to his face.
“Find a seat, new boy!” somebody yelled.
I didn’t look to see who it was. I can do this, I thought. I can do this. But the words didn’t make me feel any better.
BY WATT KEY
Alabama Moon
Dirt Road Home
Fourmile
An Imprint of Macmillan
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
mackids.com
FOURMILE. Copyright © 2012 by Albert Watkins Key, Jr.
All rights reserved.
Square Fish and the Square Fish logo are trademarks of Macmillan and are used by Farrar Straus Giroux under license from Macmillan.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Key, Watt.
Fourmile / Watt Key.
p. cm.
Summary: “A mysterious stranger arrives at a boy’s rundown Alabama farm home, just as a dangerous situation is unfolding for the twelve-year-old and his widowed mother” — Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-250-03995-8 (paperback) / ISBN 978-0-374-32441-4 (e-book)
[1. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 2. Violence—Fiction. 3. Farm life—Alabama—Fiction. 4. Alabama—Fiction.] 1. Title. II. Title: Four mile.
PZ7.K516Fo 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2012003220
Originally published in the United States by Farrar Straus Giroux
First Square Fish Edition: 2014
Square Fish logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
eISBN 9780374324414
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