Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

  I turned further to my left and looked at an open door that revealed a view of the sun porch at the front of the cottage. I saw a small bed and a clothesline stretching over it with pieces of paper attached to it along its length by clothespins. I remembered how Jack had all those notes hung up on the clothesline in my dressing room and realized that this spot on the porch was where he must have done some of his most important thinking and writing. I would later learn that this was where Jack actually slept. It was his bedroom.

  I heard the barking of dogs and turned away from the room and went on down the hall to investigate. At the end of the hall I looked through a door on my right. It was a bedroom. Charmian stood by the door of an adjoining bedroom where Sekine was moving some suitcases. Bess stood in front of an open suitcase which she had placed on a bed, and was about to put some of her clothes in a chest of drawers. Bobby was crouched down on the floor in front of another dog, another fox terrier that looked a lot like Bobby. This was Jack and Charmian’s dog, Possum. It was Possum that was doing most of the barking.

  “Now Possum,” Charmian said, “you play nice. Bobby is our guest.”

  Possum stopped barking and turned his head to look up at Charmian. Bobby stood up expectantly.

  “You two go outside to play,” Charmian said, and she turned and went into the other bedroom and opened another door that led out on to the back porch. Possum followed Charmian to the door.

  “Outside,” Charmian said.

  Bobby trotted after Possum.

  “Both of you,” Charmian said.

  The two dogs went out the door, Charmian watching them for a moment, and then she closed the door.

  “Just like children,” Charmian said.

  “That’s what Bobby is to us,” I said. “He’s our child.”

  Bess looked up at me, and then over to Charmian.

  “We’ve had to settle for dogs,” Bess said. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “You know it’s not,” Charmian said. “Don’t tell yourself that. It’s not for the best. It’s just what is.”

  “Another thing we have in common,” Bess said. “Neither one of us has ever had any children.”

  Charmian stared at Bess, and then looked down to the floor.

  “I had a child,” Charmian said, “once.”

  “What happened?” Bess asked.

  Charmian looked up to Bess, then to me, and then back to Bess.

  “She died,” Charmian said quietly, and then looked down at the floor again.

  “I’m sorry,” Bess said.

  Charmian nodded slowly, still looking down at the floor.

  “The child,” I asked, “was the child Jack’s?”

  “Yes,” Charmian said. “Joy was our child.”

  “Joy?” Bess asked. “That was her name?”

  Charmian looked up at us, nodded, and then looked down at the floor again.

  “We named her Joy because she was a joy,” Charmian said. “She came with great suffering, but she gave us only joy— and then only sorrow when she was gone.”

  “How…how did she…pass?” Bess asked.

  “It had been a difficult birth,” Charmian said. “In the hospital they had to put me under the ether and perform a caesarian. Thirty-eight hours later Joy died.”

  “I know it was a difficult time for both of you,” I said.

  “Jack and I have had many difficult times,” Charmian said, “but losing Joy was the worst. We dealt with it, each in our own way. We still deal with it.”

  “You still think of her,” Bess said.

  “I will think of Joy every day for the rest of my life,” Charmian said. “I can’t help it. But I accept that she’s gone. Jack and I don’t live in the past. We let it go. Today is what really matters. We live for today. It’s the only way to live— if you’re going to live at all.”

  I heard footsteps coming down the hall, and realized how well I had already come to know Jack, because I immediately recognized the sounds as Jack’s footsteps; the sound of Jack’s footsteps was as clearly identifiable to me as the sound of Jack’s own voice.

  I turned around and saw Jack approaching, his hat in hand.

  “The horses are out front,” Jack said, “all saddled up and ready to go. Now we can rest or we can take off for the mountain, whatever you want, I’m game.”

  “I’m for taking off,” I said. “Bess?”

  “Sure,” Bess said. “I’m not tired.”

  “You can do this unpacking later,” Charmian said. “Come on, let’s ride! Let’s get out of here!”

  “All right,” Bess said, dropping one of her blouses back into the suitcase.

  “You need some riding pants, though,” Charmian said. “Come in here with me. I have an outfit you can wear. It’ll fit you perfectly. It’ll just take a minute.”

  Charmian went back up the hall to the front of the house, and Bess came forward to follow her out.

  “You must have proper equestrian garb to be a proper equestrian,” Jack said to Bess as she passed him in the hall.

  “Is that what you are?” Bess asked.

  “No,” Jack said, “I am an improper equestrian. As you see, I don’t have the garb.”

  Bess followed Charmian on down the hall where they turned into a room.

  Jack started down the hall and I followed after him.

  As we went, Jack called sharply: “Sekine!”

  We turned into Jack’s “literature factory,” and descended the steps to his study.

  “Take a seat,” Jack said. “Charmian said ‘a minute’ so that means we have a bit of a wait.”

  I sat down in a chair by the table and Jack settled into the swivel chair in front of his desk.

  “Lots of letters to answer,” Jack said, thumbing through a stack of mail. “They can wait. We have pressing business, you and I.”

  “We do?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “Our ride up the mountain,” Jack said. “Right now, that’s more important than anything. Sekine!”

  Sekine came rushing down the steps.

  “Finally!” Jack huffed. “What took you so long?”

  Sekine shrugged, smiling, and said, “Tlunks, Mistuh Rondon.”

  “Tlunks, eh?” Jack asked. “Well, forget those now. I want you to give us something to drink. What would you have, Houdini?”

  “How about a glass of water?” I asked.

  “Water?” Jack asked. “You ask for water?”

  “If that’s all right,” I said.

  “Of course it’s all right,” Jack said. “Would you care for any ice in it?”

  “Ice?” I asked. “Why, yes, that would be good.”

  “Two large glasses of ice water Sekine,” Jack said. “Oh— on second thought— bring two glasses and a pitcher of ice water. We may want seconds or thirds. We may have a drinking contest, a water bash. It’s never been done before and probably never again, for that matter! Go on, Sekine, go! You heard our guest. Ice water! Ice cold water! Artic cold! Make it snappy!”

  Sekine had already left the room in a run.

  “He moves,” I said.

  “He had better move,” Jack said.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” I said.

  “So ‘tis,” Jack said. “Very nice. I love it. I love every minute of my life here. Almost every minute. Sometimes there’s a little snag.”

  “Like just now with your ranch hand,” I said.

  “Oh, that,” Jack said. “That was a trifle. There are always trifles in running a ranch. Eliza handles most of them, or I could never get any writing done. Sekine! Hurry that water up! If I don’t keep at him he lingers.”

  “It’s no hurry,” I said.

  Jack turned and looked at me. Some kind of realization came across his face.

  “S’pose it’s not,” Jack said. “It takes a day or two for me to fall back into the rhythm of the ranch. I’m still wound up from Oakland.”

  “Lots of books,” I said, looking at his shelves.
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  “Those?” Jack said. “That’s nothing. Most of my books are packed away out in the barn. It’s very frustrating. Just when I think that I’ve got everything efficiently arranged, I find that the one book I sorely need is out there in the barn. I have to stop everything I’m thinking about and doing and go out there and search for that one book. It’s a damned, infernal nuisance. But, I’m stuck with it. I just don’t have room for a library in this little house.”

  “You should build a bigger house,” I said.

  Jack’s face froze. He turned and looked at me, and then said: “I tried that— once. It has been tried.”

  “You’ve tried building a bigger house?” I asked with a laugh. “What happened? Did your roof fall in or something like that?”

  “Something like that,” Jack said. “You don’t know about my house? Wolf House?”

  “No,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “I’ll show it to you today,” Jack said. “That is, what’s left of it.”

  Jack stood up and stepped toward the hall.

  “Sekine!” Jack shouted. “Where they hell are you?”

  In a moment Sekine came rushing down the steps with a tray laden with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. He sat the tray down on the table and bowed.

  “That’ll do,” Jack said. “Now go finish up with the trunks.”

  “Yes, suh, Mistul Rondon,” Sekine said, bowing again, and then he turned, went up the steps and went back down the hall. Jack poured the ice water into the two glasses, and then gave me a glass.

  “Thanks,” I said taking the glass and taking a sip.

  Jack raised his glass and drank.

  “That’s good,” I said. “I was thirstier than I thought.”

  “Ice cold water,” Jack said, “right out of the springs of Sonoma Mountain. None better in the world.”

  “You know,” I said, “I’ve written a little myself,”

  “Have you,” Jack said, and he sat back down at his desk.

  “Yes,” I said, “a couple of books, stuff on magic— a short story, and articles for the show business magazines.”

  “Mm,” Jack said, “I see.”

  “I’ve thought about writing more,” I said.

  “Mm hmm,” Jack said.

  “I thought maybe you could give me some tips,” I said.

  “Tips?” Jack asked.

  “On writing, you know,” I said.

  “Mm hmm,” Jack said. “I see.”

  Jack turned away from me a moment and looked out toward the windows. I had no idea what he was thinking. Just as I started to become a little uncomfortable, Jack turned about suddenly and looked me in the face.

  “Well let me tell you,” Jack started. “If you really want to write, then I have but one tip for you: write. That’s what I did. I wrote. And I wrote. And then I wrote some more. I wrote on a typewriter that didn’t work. I nearly crippled all my fingers trying to work that monstrous contraption. It was some kind of rusted antique, I’d say, made in the year one of typewriter manufacturing. I should’ve operated that damn thing with a carpenter’s hammer. I should’ve— it was like hammering nails. I worked with that thing for weeks every day, for hours every day, until I thought I had gone mad. Perhaps I had gone mad. And I’d go to the post office and mail out all this truck I’d been writing, sent it off to a bunch of magazines, and after awhile all of it came back, each manuscript came back with a stereotyped rejection slip— dozens of them— hundreds of them. It went on like that until I went completely broke. That’s how you learn to write. Write, write, write like mad until you are mad and lose everything you’ve got. Do that and you will have learned what it is to write, more— you will have become a writer. You will have achieved something which no university can confer upon you with a degree. You will have something that cannot be acquired through purchase, or favor, or advice, or tips. You will have achieved. How did you become a master of escape?”

  “I worked at it night and day,” I said. “I still work at it night and day.”

  “Precisely,” Jack said. “Writing requires nothing less— nothing less if you want to write something worth reading. And here is a little thing which really is a big thing after all: keep a notebook and put every stray thought into it that flits through your head. One of those thoughts might be worth something. And read. The secret to writing is in the books already written. It is there in plain sight. Study the tricks of those who have already mastered the writing game. We all use tricks. Study our tricks and you may learn a few of your own. Don’t spread yourself thin. Concentrate on one subject and capture it, rather than dissipate your energies over a dozen. Don’t wait for inspiration— go after it with a club. If you don’t get it, you’ll get a reasonable imitation of it. Set yourself a goal— a writing ‘stint’ of so many words a day and see that you do that ‘stint’ each day. At the end of a year you will be amazed. Work. Work all the time. The three great things are: good health, work, and a philosophy of life— some philosophy of life that is sincerely your own— doesn’t matter if your doctrine is right or wrong as long as it is sincerely what you believe from your own knowledge and your own best intentions. Without these things you’ll have nothing, with these— you may cleave to greatness and sit among the giants.”

  I sat looking at Jack, a bit dumbfounded, and feeling a bit foolish for having asked him such a stupid question. Of course the secret to writing— or to anything else— was work and persistence borne of commitment.

  Finally, I said, “Good advice. I understand all that. I suppose what I was really asking was…do you think I have the talent in me to be a writer, the ability?”

  “Of course you do,” Jack said. “Certainly. Why, look at all the fantastic experiences you have had in your life! There is your raw literary material. You’ve known kings and presidents and traveled the world— traveled out of this world for that matter.”

  “Can’t write about out of this world,” I said.

  “Of course you can,” Jack said. “Write what you experienced, but obscure its veracity under the veils of fiction. Use pieces of it here and there. You must also decide what kind of writing you want to do. Books, articles, essays?”

  “I want to do it all,” I said.

  “You can’t do it all, not at first,” Jack said. “You must focus. When I started out I wrote nothing but short stories. I saw them as a way to make some quick cash, and I also had the notion at that time that the novel as a literary form was passing away. I was wrong about that. The novel as a literary form is still doing quite well.”

  “I’ve thought of writing for the cinema,” I said. “I’ve had some offers to appear in some cinema plays, and I’ve been thinking I could write one of my own and act in it myself.”

  “Cinema plays?” Jack asked. “For the motion picture screen? There is a great deal of money to be had in that market. I’m already beginning to collect some of that cash bonanza on my own work. Of course you could do that.”

  “You really think so, eh?” I asked.

  Jack shook his head, laughed, and said, “It seems that you are almost asking me for my permission for you to become a writer. You’ve said yourself that you have written and published. Well, there you are! You are a writer— and don’t let anyone tell you that you are not. Has anyone told you that?”

  “Well,” I said, “yes. My wife— Bess.”

  “Our relatives know our talents the least,” Jack said. “Now Charmian— I met Charmian after I had already established my literary reputation. But those closest to me, most of them, did not believe that I could write, not really. They may have said they did, they may have tolerated my efforts, but they did not really believe. Even now, most of them, like my mother, can only see the money I’ve made. They don’t understand my writing. Eliza always stood by me, and my dear old colored nurse, Aunt Jennie Prentiss— she always believed in me and helped me. She didn’t understand my writing, but she believed in me and believed that I could do anything I set out to do. It�
��s good for a writer to have people like that around. Haven’t you ever had someone around who believed in you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “My mother. She was the guiding light of my life, but now she’s gone these two years.”

  “No one else?” Jack asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Then you must look to yourself,” Jack said. “Look within yourself. Only there you will find the answer to your doubts— if there is any answer to be found.”

  Jack lifted the ice-pitcher and poured himself another glass of water, and then he held the pitcher out to me. I nodded and he poured more ice-water into my glass.

  “Achievement,” Jack said. “That’s all this game of life is about— that is, if one wants to live life for what it’s really worth. I know you understand that. You have lived your dream. One man wants to be President. Another wants to build an empire. Still another wants to be a baseball player— that’s his great dream. Another wants to paint a great picture, or compose a symphony, or write the great American novel.”

  “That’s what you’ve done,” I said.

  Jack shrugged. “The great American novel?” Jack asked. “I don’t know. I’ve written some good things, but they haven’t really been my idea of achievement. I’ve written to make money. And I’ve made the money, lord knows. But with me, achievement has to be concrete. I’d rather win a water-fight in the swimming pool than write the great American novel. But I say: each man to his liking. So if your liking is in writing the great American novel, then I say: go to it and write it. That is, write it, if such a thing can be written. Perhaps the great American novel is a myth. Perhaps all greatness is a myth, all puffery and advertisement. Perhaps. And perhaps none of it matters anyway, one way or another. At bottom, life itself may be a delusion. But that matter is another matter. Let’s postulate greatness as a goal worthy of the attempt of attainment— the noumena behind the phenomena, the hypothesis to be tested. If it doesn’t exist, it still gives zest to our delusions. No, I say: go to it, write for all it’s worth, for all you’re worth, and— who knows— perhaps you may actually find something of real value in it somewhere along your way.”