Authors: Tom Grimes
Mentor: A Memoir (21 page)
Returning to my car, I traipsed over dead leaves and intermittent patches of snow. Other than the sounds I made, the world was silent. Occasionally, I’d pause to listen. Then I’d move when wind bent the tree limbs until they creaked.
In town, I went to a restaurant called the Sanctuary and sat at the bar. The other stools and booths were empty. No one had dropped a coin into the jukebox. And as I drank, an emotional twilight softened my resistance. Defeated, I called Jody and told her to meet me.
When she arrived I smiled and said, “Okay, we’ll go.” Without removing her coat, she put her arms around my neck, kissed me, sat down, and said, “Now buy me a drink.”
The next day I told Frank about my decision. He said, “You’re doing the right thing. And I can promise you, you’ll be back.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I
called SWT—at the time, this was the university’s acronym—and told the department chair I would arrive in August. Jody and I put our house on the market. And, surprisingly,
People
magazine planned to run a long, flattering review of
Season’s End
. Its editors dispatched a photographer to take my picture. In my office, I leaned, as requested, against my floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I sat at my desk, held a pencil, and concentrated on a spiral-bound notebook. I looked down, as if staring into a grave; up, as if contemplating infinity. Then the photographer asked me to don a baseball cap. “I don’t own one,” I said. A baseball jersey? “No.” How about a bat, do you have a bat? “No,” I lied. I had a blond, thirty-two-inch Rawlings behind the office door. And I’d hidden a graphite-smudged baseball. Whenever my writing stalled, I’d lift it from the dictionary beside my typewriter, toss it overhead, and catch it until I’d emptied my mind so new sentences could fill it. I also owned an outfielder’s mitt, which, at times, I wore on my left hand as I scribbled with my right. But these were private talismans, so the photographer left Iowa City without a snapshot of me wearing a baseball costume, leaving me my dignity. But what might be forthcoming, according to Eric, was a hundred-thousand-dollar option for the novel’s film rights. And a foreign book scout’s synopsis hyped
Season’s End
as a “masterpiece of American fiction,” which, she believed, would “travel because it is fundamentally about universal themes and it is truely [
sic
] great writing.” I might have trusted her judgment had she’d spelled
truly
correctly. Yet, maybe Frank’s prophecy had been true: everything would be fine. I’d been a fool to worry.
called SWT—at the time, this was the university’s acronym—and told the department chair I would arrive in August. Jody and I put our house on the market. And, surprisingly,
People
magazine planned to run a long, flattering review of
Season’s End
. Its editors dispatched a photographer to take my picture. In my office, I leaned, as requested, against my floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I sat at my desk, held a pencil, and concentrated on a spiral-bound notebook. I looked down, as if staring into a grave; up, as if contemplating infinity. Then the photographer asked me to don a baseball cap. “I don’t own one,” I said. A baseball jersey? “No.” How about a bat, do you have a bat? “No,” I lied. I had a blond, thirty-two-inch Rawlings behind the office door. And I’d hidden a graphite-smudged baseball. Whenever my writing stalled, I’d lift it from the dictionary beside my typewriter, toss it overhead, and catch it until I’d emptied my mind so new sentences could fill it. I also owned an outfielder’s mitt, which, at times, I wore on my left hand as I scribbled with my right. But these were private talismans, so the photographer left Iowa City without a snapshot of me wearing a baseball costume, leaving me my dignity. But what might be forthcoming, according to Eric, was a hundred-thousand-dollar option for the novel’s film rights. And a foreign book scout’s synopsis hyped
Season’s End
as a “masterpiece of American fiction,” which, she believed, would “travel because it is fundamentally about universal themes and it is truely [
sic
] great writing.” I might have trusted her judgment had she’d spelled
truly
correctly. Yet, maybe Frank’s prophecy had been true: everything would be fine. I’d been a fool to worry.
Or maybe I hadn’t. Little, Brown arranged a brief, odd book “tour.” I would read in Dayton, Columbus, and Toledo, Ohio. Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Iowa City, Iowa. And Madison, Wisconsin. Also, the novel’s publication date coincided with major league baseball’s opening day, meaning it would be released with fifty other “baseball” books. Little, Brown’s marketing strategy seemed to involve keeping the book a secret in large cities, and confusing reviewers by having it arrive for reviews along with
Timmy of the Little League
. My hope withered, my anxiety bloomed, and, not wanting to be caught in public looking for copies of my novel, I avoided Prairie Lights. Instead, I checked the university co-op’s bookstore, where no one knew me. In the center of the store, a round table no larger than a beach umbrella displayed important new books. As the table was impossible to ignore, nine out of every ten customers stopped, selected a book, studied its jacket, opened the back cover, glanced at the author’s photograph, flipped to the first page, read it, skimmed a few random pages, and, nine times out of ten, returned the book to its spot. I knew. I kept count as I loitered in the fiction section and imagined copies of
Season’s End
standing on the table, daring customers not to buy one. But the book failed to materialize. Copies had to be in storage, no? I considered inquiring, anonymously, about the novel’s availability, but repeatedly lost my nerve and bought, as a cowardly diversionary tactic, a dozen paperbacks I didn’t need. Finally, publication day arrived. Confident that I’d find the novel prominently displayed, I descended the stairs, turned into the center aisle, and saw a hardcover pyramid, twenty copies high, of—
Jazz
by Toni Morrison. Her first novel since she won the Pulitzer for
Beloved
, arguably the greatest American novel of the late twentieth century, and my novel had identical release dates. I now had to contend with Timmy
and
Toni. I imagined the table’s legs buckling under the weight of two hundred books, then I left the store without checking to see if
Season’s End
had been shelved, in alphabetical order, between novels by Martha Grimes and John Grisham.
Timmy of the Little League
. My hope withered, my anxiety bloomed, and, not wanting to be caught in public looking for copies of my novel, I avoided Prairie Lights. Instead, I checked the university co-op’s bookstore, where no one knew me. In the center of the store, a round table no larger than a beach umbrella displayed important new books. As the table was impossible to ignore, nine out of every ten customers stopped, selected a book, studied its jacket, opened the back cover, glanced at the author’s photograph, flipped to the first page, read it, skimmed a few random pages, and, nine times out of ten, returned the book to its spot. I knew. I kept count as I loitered in the fiction section and imagined copies of
Season’s End
standing on the table, daring customers not to buy one. But the book failed to materialize. Copies had to be in storage, no? I considered inquiring, anonymously, about the novel’s availability, but repeatedly lost my nerve and bought, as a cowardly diversionary tactic, a dozen paperbacks I didn’t need. Finally, publication day arrived. Confident that I’d find the novel prominently displayed, I descended the stairs, turned into the center aisle, and saw a hardcover pyramid, twenty copies high, of—
Jazz
by Toni Morrison. Her first novel since she won the Pulitzer for
Beloved
, arguably the greatest American novel of the late twentieth century, and my novel had identical release dates. I now had to contend with Timmy
and
Toni. I imagined the table’s legs buckling under the weight of two hundred books, then I left the store without checking to see if
Season’s End
had been shelved, in alphabetical order, between novels by Martha Grimes and John Grisham.
That was Tuesday. On Thursday,
People
magazine appeared. As if I were buying pornography and didn’t want to be caught and embarrassed, I walked to an out-of-the-way 7-Eleven and opened that week ’s issue. The lead review and its large author photo: Toni. A week later, the second review and no photo: Tom. But, as a compliment, the reviewer said
Season’s End
read like a “baseball” novel written by Kafka. The
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
disagreed: it read like a “baseball” novel written by Pynchon. The
Boston Globe
didn’t say anything; although the
Patriot Ledger
in Quincy, Massachusetts did, positively. Maggie, who’d lived in Boston for years, said, “Oh, all the smart people read the
Ledger
.” Which was good, except the
Ledger
had five hundred thousand fewer readers than the
Globe
. A stunning review from the
Flint Journal
streaked across the literary firmament, and readers would have stampeded local bookstores if one thing hadn’t held them back: Flint, Michigan, had the highest unemployment rate in the country. As for the
Times
: silence. Frank said, “Don’t worry, it’s early. And I’ve sent off the Whiting thing.”
People
magazine appeared. As if I were buying pornography and didn’t want to be caught and embarrassed, I walked to an out-of-the-way 7-Eleven and opened that week ’s issue. The lead review and its large author photo: Toni. A week later, the second review and no photo: Tom. But, as a compliment, the reviewer said
Season’s End
read like a “baseball” novel written by Kafka. The
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
disagreed: it read like a “baseball” novel written by Pynchon. The
Boston Globe
didn’t say anything; although the
Patriot Ledger
in Quincy, Massachusetts did, positively. Maggie, who’d lived in Boston for years, said, “Oh, all the smart people read the
Ledger
.” Which was good, except the
Ledger
had five hundred thousand fewer readers than the
Globe
. A stunning review from the
Flint Journal
streaked across the literary firmament, and readers would have stampeded local bookstores if one thing hadn’t held them back: Flint, Michigan, had the highest unemployment rate in the country. As for the
Times
: silence. Frank said, “Don’t worry, it’s early. And I’ve sent off the Whiting thing.”
I landed in Dayton several hours before my evening reading. At the hotel’s registration desk, I gave my name. The clerk checked her computer. She said, “Mr. Grimes, one night.” Then she looked at me. “I’ll just need your credit card.”
“My publisher’s paying for the room.”
She rechecked her monitor. “Sorry, I’m not seeing that.”
“You mean I’m getting billed?”
“I’m afraid you are, if you want the room.”
I opened my wallet, removed my MasterCard, and handed it to her. She returned it with the room key, the hotel’s floor plan, and a
Sights to See in Dayton
brochure. “Have a good night,” she said.
Sights to See in Dayton
brochure. “Have a good night,” she said.
At 7:00 PM, a young man about to graduate from college picked me up and drove me to the bookstore. It was one of three owned by a small, independent chain. I’d been scheduled to read at another location, but, before I flew out of Iowa City, my PR person called to say the venue had been changed. When I asked why she said, as calmly as if she had the statistic to prove it, “More baseball fans live close to this store.” Inside, fifty folding chairs had been lined up in tight rows. Beside a podium stood a table supporting fifty copies of
Season’s End
. And on a table adjacent to the audience a second table was topped with a coffee urn and several platters of cookies, which would eventually be carried home by the staff because there was no audience. The young man and I waited, expecting at least one customer to take a seat, if for no other reason than to rest. Occasionally, someone would swipe a cookie, then scurry away as if I might begin reading to him. Soon the manager, a trim woman in her forties, ventured out of her office to apologize. “We usually have a good turnout,” she said.
Season’s End
. And on a table adjacent to the audience a second table was topped with a coffee urn and several platters of cookies, which would eventually be carried home by the staff because there was no audience. The young man and I waited, expecting at least one customer to take a seat, if for no other reason than to rest. Occasionally, someone would swipe a cookie, then scurry away as if I might begin reading to him. Soon the manager, a trim woman in her forties, ventured out of her office to apologize. “We usually have a good turnout,” she said.
“Don’t worry.”
“Well, wait a while, it’s only,” she eyed her wristwatch, “ten to eight.” She told me to autograph copies of the book before I left. I promised I would.
Bored, the kid and I chatted about his major, literature. Then he asked me if he should apply to MFA programs. I waved at the empty chairs. “My audience,” I said, “is chocolate chip cookies.” Feeling slighted, he stared at his shoes. “Look,” I said, “if you have to write, you’ll write. You don’t choose the writer’s life; the writer’s life chooses you.” He raised his head and looked at me. “Take a year off,” I said. “Stay out of school. Get a job, travel. Whatever. After that, if you still want to sit alone in a room three to five hours a day, every day, call, and I’ll answer any questions you like.” I lifted the pen from the book-signing table and jotted my number on a napkin. Then I said, “Are there readings at your other two stores tonight?” He nodded. “Who?”
“The Galloping Gourmet and Gail Sheehy,” whose book about women’s sexuality had sold five million copies.
I autographed every copy of my book, then said, “Take me back to the hotel.” On the way out, he grabbed a cookie.
In Toledo, my audience of six kept saying they couldn’t hear me over the espresso machine’s hissing.
But the Columbus store owners had designed and mounted on foam core a baseball-shaped advertisement for my reading. It weighed a few ounces, but was thirty-six inches in diameter. On it they’d printed baseball stitches, Ann Beattie’s blurb for
Season’s End
, and a snippet from the
New York Times
’ review of
A Stone of the Heart
. After the reading, they told me to take it with me. Thinking it was sweet of them to make the effort, I did, but as I was about to board the flight home a stewardess said, “I’m sorry, that’s too large to store in the cabin.” We decided it would be crushed in the luggage compartment, so I said, “I’ll just toss it.” She said, “Wait a second.” She disappeared, reappeared, and said, “The captain will stow it in the cockpit.” I said, “Thanks, that’s really generous.” At thirty-four thousand feet, the captain announced over the intercom that we’d reached our cruising altitude. “The weather between here and Iowa is clear,” he added. “So sit back and enjoy a smooth flight.” My face was tucked between two pages of the
Times
when I heard, “And we have a celebrated author with us today. His new novel is
Season’s End
.” I pulled the paper closer, like a turtle retracting its head into its shell. “‘Persuasively touching and comical,’ the
New York Times
called his first novel.” Around me, people seemed to worry about who was flying the plane. In Cedar Rapids, the stewardess handed me the huge, round poster. The captain shook my hand and said, “A pleasure.” I smiled, then marched up the ramp, mortified, and disappointingly famous to nearby passengers.
Season’s End
, and a snippet from the
New York Times
’ review of
A Stone of the Heart
. After the reading, they told me to take it with me. Thinking it was sweet of them to make the effort, I did, but as I was about to board the flight home a stewardess said, “I’m sorry, that’s too large to store in the cabin.” We decided it would be crushed in the luggage compartment, so I said, “I’ll just toss it.” She said, “Wait a second.” She disappeared, reappeared, and said, “The captain will stow it in the cockpit.” I said, “Thanks, that’s really generous.” At thirty-four thousand feet, the captain announced over the intercom that we’d reached our cruising altitude. “The weather between here and Iowa is clear,” he added. “So sit back and enjoy a smooth flight.” My face was tucked between two pages of the
Times
when I heard, “And we have a celebrated author with us today. His new novel is
Season’s End
.” I pulled the paper closer, like a turtle retracting its head into its shell. “‘Persuasively touching and comical,’ the
New York Times
called his first novel.” Around me, people seemed to worry about who was flying the plane. In Cedar Rapids, the stewardess handed me the huge, round poster. The captain shook my hand and said, “A pleasure.” I smiled, then marched up the ramp, mortified, and disappointingly famous to nearby passengers.
While I was away, Little, Brown mailed Eric twenty-four review clippings: each positive, each approximately twenty-four words long, and each from a newspaper’s sports section. With a trace of exasperation and complaint in his voice Eric said, “Tom, I can’t do anything with these,” meaning, the reviews were worthless. He couldn’t use them to promote the book, particularly to foreign publishers, all of whom, despite the literary scout’s enthusiasm, ultimately declined to publish it. I don’t believe Eric intended to make me feel responsible for the length and nature of the reviews, he was too kind and supportive; nevertheless, he did.
If I could ask him today, no doubt his recollection would differ from mine. Our conversation has been replayed, reshaped, and re-remembered so many times that the divide between memory and imagination no longer exists. I am trying to remember not only events and conversations but also emotions related to who I was, what occurred, and how I felt about what occurred a third of my lifetime ago. And as I write, I revise these sentences. I will revise them again and again, hearing them differently, satisfied with them one moment, frustrated the next, even though I’m sure they’re the best sentences I can make. But one day, I’ll reread them and want to change them again. They’ll no longer be the sentences I trusted.
Now, I’m fifty-four, and it’s 6:28 PM. It’s summer and the sunlight is brighter than my room’s lamplight would be in autumn, when I would call the same hour “evening.” Yet despite how I feel about my memory of Eric, I still want to relive those few moments when I had to decide who would publish the book and he waited for my answer. I want to see and feel the alternate life I would have lived had I answered differently. And if I were not seated at this desk in a warm, sunlit room, if I were cold, and typing by lamplight, my memory of that conversation would not be the memory I’ve conjured up at this moment. Our voices, Eric’s and mine, are fainter now than when I began to describe them. But these words are the only accurate record of what I thought and felt in a warm, sunlit room, at this time in my life, which, at 7:06 PM, has already become my past.
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