Beyond Nostalgia

by Winton, Tom

  A few minutes later, after our feet were back on terra firma, we hung up and, with trembling fingers, I dialed the publisher's number. I'd been so excited when I scrawled it I could barely decipher it now. I wasn't sure if the twos were twos or sevens. Twice, mid-dial, I hit a wrong digit and had to hang up and try again. The third time, I got it right. The phone rang four times and, with each ring, my heart sunk a little deeper. Had she gone home already? God, I hoped not. The anticipation would kill me if I had to wait till Monday morning.

  But I didn't. Someone picked up. "Olympus Books, Fran Danforth, may I help you?"

  The words felt heavy and awkward coming from my mouth. "Hello …er … Ms. Danforth? This is Dean Cassidy returning your call."

  "Yesss, Mister Cassidy, how do you do?"

  "Fine, just fine, please … call me Dean."

  "Alright, Dean, if you'll call me Fran." Her voice was astute but not the least bit frosty, friendly in a kind of a semi-formal way. "As I explained to Mrs. Cassidy … and, by the way … she sounds like a lovely lady ….. "

  "Oh thanks, she's got to be the best to put up with me."

  Ms. Danforth chuckled once, then said, " … well, as I told Mrs. Cassidy, we at Olympus would like to publish 'Look What They've Done To Our Dream'. Our selection committee feels the story is beautifully written, perfectly plotted and also timely. The characters are so convincing that they, as Mister Wainscot himself put it, 'leap off the pages and take you hostage.' We all feel that your voice is very, very strong, yet sensitive and intelligent. You've conveyed the theme meticulously, yet the narrative remains bipartisan. Your writing is terse and the dialogue is as good as any we've seen in some time. Dean, we would like to have you sign on with us. We would like to release your book early next spring, either March or April."

  I said, "Everything sounds great so far." Purposely, I avoided saying too much, fearful that if I did, she might realize I'm not all that smart and possibly retract the offer. I knew this was a stupid thought and wondered why I did ignorant shit like that to myself. I was so excited I could see my heart pounding, no, dancing, beneath my shirt. I thought I might be having the big one right then and there.

  "Terrific," Fran Danforth said, "because we are obviously very impressed with your work. So impressed that after reading your manuscript, we all wondered where a talent like yours has been hiding. You see, we are constantly on the lookout for promising new writers. It's a never-ending vigil in the publishing business. We scour the literary magazines, reading short stories, always hunting for new talent. And, every so often, we find a piece that we think is exceptional. When we do, we try to contact the writer to let him or her know we have an interest in their work. We encourage them to write a novel, and oftentimes they do and a marriage takes place. We have signed some of our top authors that way. But none of us recall ever have seeing any of your work or surely we would have contacted you."

  "Well, to be honest with you Ms. Danforth ... I mean, Fran, 'Look What They've Done To Our Dream' is the first thing I've ever written. I've never done any short stories or anything. You see, when I got the idea for my story, I knew I wouldn't be able to tell it in just a few thousand words. I knew it had to be novel length."

  "Well, no matter how many or how few your credentials, we at Olympus loved it, Dean, so much so that we would like to Fed Ex a contract to you first thing Monday morning." She paused a moment and I heard some papers being shuffled. Then she said, "I would like to give you a quick rundown, now, of what Olympus Books is willing to offer you … if that's OK, if you have a minute or two."

  "Sure … sure, go ahead, Fran. I've got time." Like the rest of my life if that's what it takes ….

  "OK. Good. First of all, Dean, we feel your story has better than mid-list potential, and we can assure you that if you opt to go with us, we will promote it. Now let me see here … " There was another short pause and she hummed to fill it. "OK, here it is. I've been authorized to offer you fifteen percent of all royalties and … ahhh … an eight-thousand-dollar advance, which we would send to you as soon as we receive the signed contract back, if everything in it is to your liking of course. The stipulations are pretty standard but, if you'd like, by all means have an attorney look it over."

  A minute later, after we'd hung up, I thought, Myyy Goddd, an advance, too, e-i-g-h-t t-h-o-u-s-a-n-d d-o-l-l-a-r-s!

  Sure. I knew upfront money was often part of such deals, but this news all came so quickly. I had been so overwhelmed by the thought of getting published, that I hadn't had time during our conversation to even think about advances. All the good news had come so quickly. I was so happy, so authentically happy that for the second time in five minutes I was afraid something would go wrong and spoil it all. One of my father's pessimistic aphorisms passed through my head. If he ever taught me anything that turned out to be true it was "Don't ever, and I mean ever, count on anything until it's in your hand. Until you're holding it, you ain't got shit." All my life I'd calloused my most joyous occasions with this profound advice. And, luckily so, because many times over the years my father's way of negative thinking helped insulate me from major disappointments.

  Despite my apprehension, this was one of my life's most exciting events, an experience that, for the first time in twenty-odd years, allowed me a few minutes of absolute happiness, that rarest strain of uncut bliss, a euphoria that I'd long before learned to revel in the few times fate happened to sprinkle it my way. God, I was ecstatic now. I couldn't wait to get home and see Maddy and the kids.

  Of course, I called Maddy Frances back as soon as I'd hung up with Fran Danforth. I told her the contract was being sent out Monday, and that I'd be getting a fifteen percent royalty on every book sold. But I also attached a little white lie to this double-good news. Well, not really a lie, more like a sin of omission. Well, I guess it was both. I fibbed that I had customers waiting for me, that they were growing impatient, and I had to get off the phone when, in reality, I wanted to cut the conversation short so I could save the part about the advance until I got home. I felt a little greedy holding out on her, but I needed to experience firsthand Maddy's and the kids' reactions to this grand surprise. I just had to be there, had to see my wife's face light with joy. God knows, she deserved some genuine good news after putting up with my foul moods and depressions for so long.

  Needless to say, the rest of the afternoon dragged. Every time I checked my Timex, I swore the hands had moved backwards. But eventually, six o'clock did lumber around, right on schedule, and I was out of there.

  It was about twenty minutes later when I steered the van onto our oil and rust-mottled driveway. And, when I did, an alien expression commandeered my face. Uncontrollably, reflexively, my facial muscles pulled my mouth's corners in an unfamiliar direction, up, when I spotted the makeshift banner Maddy and the kids had tacked to our garage door. On an old sheet, yellowed by countless washings in our iron-ladened well-water, the big blue painted letters shouted: WAY TO GO DAD, WE KNEW YOU COULD DO IT! I was smiling alright, but at the same time I felt like bawling. It was a great feeling.

  Just as I rolled to a stop, even before I could shift into park, Maddy came flying out the door. She dashed across our parched, weedy lawn and flung her arms around me. She bear-hugged me, tight as she had on that darkest of days, a year earlier, when she'd found me unconscious inside the garage.

  With a cheek all mushed against my shoulder, she said, "Oh, Dean, I'm so thrilled for you."

  My empty lunch box in hand, I hugged her back, just as tightly and lifted her off the driveway.

  "What do you mean your thrilled for me? This is for US, honey. You never stopped encouraging me. You're the one kept sending out queries after I gave up. We did it, not just me."

  "I love you, Dean. I'm sooo proud of you."

  She took my lunch box, then my arm, and together we floated over the weeds and brown Bahia grass to the open front door.

  Inside the house, I said, "Your gonna love me even more when I tell you som
ething else.”

  Tugging at my arm like an impatient little girl, she asked, "What? Whaaat? More good news?"

  "Yupper, but first, are the kids home?

  She said, "They're in their rooms," then she called them out.

  "Yeah, yeah, what is it?" Dawn asked trying to be cool. "Mom already told me you're story is gonna be made into a book."

  "Way to go, dork." Trevor said affectionately, as he ambled out of his little bedroom with that terrific trademark smile on his boy-man face.

  Both my kids stood there, hands on hips, thumbs out, the rest of their fingers pointing back, a stance they'd inherited from Maddy. Looking at the three of them now, all postured that same way, I could only shake my head. I had never felt more connected to my family than at that moment. Jesus, I thought, I'm lucky to have them.

  "Wellll … O KKKK," I said, alternating looks at the kids, "Mom told you guys the good news but there's a little more to it.” I turned my eyes to Maddy and asked, "You ready for it?"

  "C'mon, c'mon Dad," coaxed Dawn the Impatient. She might have been closer to her mother, but she was just like her old man.

  "OK, here it is. Not only is the book going to be published, but I ... or I should say ... we … are getting a cash advance on it also!"

  "You mean like money? How much, Dad? How much?" Dawn asked.

  I turned my eyes to Maddy's and I said, "Would you believe, eight, thousand, dollars!"

  Maddy's face went pale. Her eyes got all froggy and her jaw fell. "Eight thousand dollars … Dean, pinch me … tell me you're not kidding."

  "Yeah, honey, EIGHT LARGE!" I noticed her eyes had reddened. A solitary quiet tear dripped from her eyelash. The rogue cheek-roller traversed the side of her face. I stepped toward her and took her in my arms.

  You have to understand what this money meant to Maddy Frances; she was the one who paid the bills. She wrote out all the checks. She was the one who mailed our sweat money off to opportunistic banks, utility companies, and all the rest. She was the one who for months had supplemented our shrinking incomes with plastic after Searcy's had cut my commission rate from six to five percent. Here we were, both of us working, living in an old house in a rapidly declining neighbourhood--without any loans to pay--and we still had to use credit cards to pay for each month's unexpected bills. Then, on top of that, during Florida's summer months, the furniture business falls off fifty-percent. Forget incidentals! Just to subsist we had to use those instant-plastic-loans with their usurious interest rates.

  Like most of the silent majority, Maddy and I were working harder and harder for much less. We couldn't even afford badly-needed dental attention for ourselves or our kids. I'd been chewing on the left side of my mouth for two years since a cracked porcelain cap on the right side kept coming off. Maddy and I each needed a couple of new crowns, and none of us had a physical exam in years. And to think they call such examinations 'routine'. For us, any dental care or medical attention, excepting emergencies, had become an unaffordable luxury. We'd never once owned a new car. Didn't want the payments. Instead we always drove around in two beaters. The van and the Skylark both ran like tired mules. Every mile we squeezed between repairs seemed like a gift. But now, these eight thousand dollars actually put us in the black.

  We paid off the forty-four-hundred-dollar balance on those cards we'd used so judiciously and, despite Maddy's heavy resistance, I finally talked her into buying some much-needed clothes for herself. Not being much of a shopper, Maddy never was much for malls or mega-shopping centers. She only went to them when it was absolutely necessary. And she was as adamant about not buying designer clothes as I was. We both realized how foolish it is to actually pay for clothes with designers' names plastered all over them. For what, so we could pay ten times what they were worth rather than five, so we could make some mindless-status claim? Nope, I-don't-think-so! Neither of us could even begin to fathom how anyone would actually buy 'billboard-clothing', let alone pay exorbitant prices for that sweatshop junk.

  Along with the few new things Maddy did buy, we got the kid's teeth fixed. And the van's A/C too. With the last eight hundred, we opened a savings account that paid a piddling four-percent interest. (Yeah, I know. Today they're paying even less). I swear I wanted to just keep the money in a dresser drawer, not participate in the bank's scam. But, at the time, there had been a rash of cat-burglaries in our neighborhood and Maddy felt better keeping our life savings, no matter how small, in a bank.

  Despite all the negativity that shrouded our world, my family and I savored the good news I'd brought home that day. And that night, when we went to bed, Maddy Frances and I fell asleep, as we had thousands of times, in each other's arms. But something was very different. There were contented smiles on our faces. I distinctly remember that. I also remember waking up in the middle of that night, lifting my head from the pillow and looking oh so lovingly at my sleeping wife's peaceful face. Then I fell back to sleep and dreamed about Theresa Wayman.

  Chapter 25

  The next nine months absolutely doddered by. Each day felt like three. But, they did pass. And finally, in late March of '94, Olympus Books released the first copies of 'Look What They've Done To Our Dream'. The wait had been agonizing. For nine months the anticipation gestated inside me, each day growing weightier and harder to carry. But eventually, when I finally held a copy of the book in my hands, (though it's easy to say when it's all over), every punishing minute I had waited seemed well worth it. I was utterly euphoric that early spring day when it arrived by overnight mail. It was like all the Christmas mornings of my life jammed into one. I tore at that cardboard envelope like a kid does at the biggest gift under the tree.

  "Easy," Maddy cautioned, her face alive with excitement, "you'll damage the book … Jees, Dean … look at you. Your hands are trembling."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said as I wrestled the bubble-wrapped book from the cardboard Fed-Ex envelope. Then, standing side-by-side alone with my wife in the living room, we got our first glimpse of my novel.

  "Dammm," I said, "look at this cover, Maddy. It's perfect."

  As we studied it, she draped an arm around my waist, lodging a thumb in a belt loop of my Levis. The cover was a real grabber; star-spangled red, white, and blue. Beneath the title, in the center of a circle of white stars, was a graphic of a harried family standing in front of a small austere cement-block house. There was a husband, a wife and a baby. The adults were leaving for work, kissing goodbye next to two jalopies parked in the driveway, the infant whaling in the distraught mother's arms. A ball and chain was tethered to each parent's ankle. "Man," I said, "if that doesn't say it all. It-is-perfect."

  Beneath this moving image, in bold blue print, was my name, DEAN CASSIDY. I read it to myself, three times. All I could say was, "Dammmm."

  Rubbing my back by now in quick little circles, Maddy said, "It is perfect! Open it, Dean … to the back inside flap."

  I was so excited, I fumbled the book, catching it mid-fall with a nervous stab of hands. "Real slick," I said as I opened the back cover. And there it was. My picture! The grainy black and white bust shot of my good side that I had picked out. You see (against our normally-frugal judgments), Maddy and I had paid a moon-lighting photographer to come to the house and snap some shots. We wanted the jacket picture to be perfect. I was real glad now that we had sprung for the seventy-five smackers. The picture looked damn good, if I must say so myself.

  "Honey, you look sooo handsome," Maddy Frances said.

  I was posed in our backyard, in front of one of the tall Areca palms. Half smiling, I had on my favorite shirt, my old, blue-denim work shirt. The top three buttons were open, exposing my K-Mart, twenty-nine-dollar, silver neck chain. Still scrutinizing the picture, I told Maddy, "I have to admit, I do look kinda spiffy."

  After that, we checked out the back cover. There were four blurbs, each giving praise to the book and author. The most impressive comments were made by best-selling author, Peter Hynchon. I read them to Maddy. "
A beautifully written novel that masterfully illustrates what dark depths life has sunk to in these once United States, a true-to-life depiction, the likes of which you'll not read about in any newspaper nor see on the evening news, a perceptive, sensitive, passionate, heart-wrenching, utterly-beautiful debut novel. Brothers and sisters, meet Dean Cassidy, I expect he'll be around for a long, long time to come."

  "I wonder if Peter Hynchon actually read it," I mused aloud.

  "Of course, he did. Nobody's going to say all those nice things about a book they didn't even read."

  "Often they do, Maddy."

  "Maybe so, but all I know is it's one terrific story. People will love it."

  "First they'll have to buy it," I said dubiously. There was that nagging inherent knack again, that talent I have for finding the darkest side of anything, no matter how good.