QB VII (13 page)

BEST OF ALL WERE THE TIMES AROUND THE CREEK. WE’D GET UP EARLY IN THE MORNING AND TAKE OUR BICYCLES DOWN TO THE DOCKS AND BUY US A WATERMELON FOR A NICKEL. THEY SOLD THEM TO THE KIDS CHEAP BECAUSE THEY HAD SPLIT IN SHIPMENT.

THEN WE’D BIKE TO THE CREEK. I HAD MY DOG IN THE FRONT BASKET AND BEN CARRIED THE WATERMELON IN HIS. WE’D SIT ON THE BANK AND PUT THE WATERMELON IN TO COOL IT AND WHILE IT WAS COOLING WE’D WALK TO A SMALL PIER AND FISH FOR SOFT SHELL CRABS. WE’D TIE A PIECE OF ROTTEN OLD MEAT ON A STRING AND HOLD IT RIGHT ON THE TOP OF THE WATER AND WHEN A CRAB WENT FOR IT, BEN WOULD SWOOP IT UP WITH A NET. THOSE CRABS WERE PRETTY DUMB.

MOMMA DIDN’T KEEP A KOSHER KITCHEN, BUT SHE WOULDN’T LET US BRING CRABS HOME SO WE’D COOK THEM ON THE BANK WITH A PIECE OF CORN OR A POTATO AND WE’D HAVE THE WATERMELON AS DESSERT AND JUST LIE IN THE GRASS AND LOOK AT THE SKY AND TALK THINGS OVER.

WE TALKED A LOT OF BASEBALL. THAT WAS LONG BEFORE BEN STARTED FLYING. BETWEEN US WE KNEW THE BATTING AVERAGE OF EVERY PLAYER IN THE MAJOR LEAGUES. THEY REALLY HAD BALLPLAYERS THEN. JIMMY FOXX AND CARL HUBBELL WERE MY IDOLS. MAYBE BEN WOULD READ A STORY I WAS WRITING. WELL, WE ALWAYS ATE SO MUCH WE GOT BELLYACHES, AND MOMMA WOULD RAISE HELL BECAUSE WE COULDN’T EAT DINNER. EVEN WHEN WE GOT OLDER WE’D ALWAYS LIKE TO WANDER DOWN TO THE CREEK TOGETHER. THAT WAS THE FIRST TIME BEN TOLD ME HE WAS GOING TO BE A COMMUNIST.

“IT’S SOMETHING POPPA WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND. HE DID THINGS HIS WAY WHEN HE WAS A KID. HE LEFT HOME TO WORK IN THE SWAMPS IN PALESTINE. WELL, I CAN’T DO THINGS THE WAY HE DID THEM.” BEN HURT FOR THE COLORED PEOPLE, AND HE FELT COMMUNISM WAS THE ONLY ANSWER. HE USED TO TALK ABOUT THE DAY THEY WOULD HAVE EQUALITY, AND GUYS LIKE JOSH GIBSON AND SATCHEL PAIGE WOULD BE PLAYING IN THE MAJORS AND THERE WOULD BE COLORED SALES PEOPLE AT RICE’S AND SMITH AND WELTON’S DEPARTMENT STORES, AND THEY’D BE ABLE TO EAT IN THE SAME RESTAURANTS AND NOT HAVE TO RIDE ON THE BACK OF THE BUS, AND THEIR KIDS WOULD BE ABLE TO GO TO WHITE SCHOOLS, AND THEY’D BE ABLE TO LIVE IN WHITE NEIGHBORHOODS. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NINETEEN THIRTIES, BEN’S DREAMS SEEMED PRETTY HARD TO BELIEVE.

I REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I SAW BEN.

HE LEANED OVER MY BED AND TAPPED ME ON THE SHOULDER, THEN HELD HIS FINGER TO HIS LIPS, AND HE WHISPERED SO AS NOT TO WAKE UP MOMMA AND POPPA.

‘I’M GOING AWAY, ABE.”

I WAS HALF ASLEEP AND GROGGY AND DIDN’T UNDERSTAND AT FIRST. I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING ON A FLYING TRIP. “WHERE YOU GOING?”

“YOU’VE GOT TO KEEP IT A SECRET.”

“SURE.”

“I’M GOING TO SPAIN.”

“TO SPAIN?”

“TO FIGHT FRANCO. I’M GOING TO FLY FOR THE LOYALISTS.” I GUESS I BEGAN TO CRY. BEN SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BED AND HUGGED ME. “REMEMBER SOME OF THE THINGS I TAUGHT YOU AND MAYBE THEY’LL HELP YOU GET ALONG. BUT MAINLY, POPPA IS RIGHT. YOU STICK TO YOUR WRITING.”

“I DON’T WANT YOU TO GO, BEN.”

“I’VE GOT TO, ABE. I’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT ALL THIS.”

STRANGE, ISN’T IT? I WASN’T ABLE TO CRY AFTER BEN’S DEATH. I WANTED TO, BUT I COULDN’T. THAT HAPPENED MUCH LATER, WHEN I DECIDED TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT MY BROTHER BEN.

I TOOK THE SCHOLARSHIP TO THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA BECAUSE OF THEIR JOURNALISM COLLEGE, AND THOMAS WOLFE AND ALL THE OTHER WRITERS, REALIZED TWO OF MY AMBITIONS, TO WRITE AND TO PLAY BALL. CHAPEL HILL HAD THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CAMPUS YOU COULD IMAGINE.

I WAS THE ONLY JEWISH BALLPLAYER ON THE FRESHMAN TEAM AND YOU’VE GOT TO KNOW SOMEONE WAS ALWAYS TRYING TO STICK A FAST BALL IN MY EAR OR CUT ME IN HALF WITH THEIR SPIKES.

THE TEAM COACH WAS A WASHED-OUT RED NECK, WHO NEVER GOT HIGHER THAN THE B LEAGUES AND EVEN CHAWED HIS TOBACCO LIKE A BUSHER. HE DIDN’T LIKE ME. HE NEVER MADE ANY ANTI-SEMITIC REMARKS TO MY FACE BUT THE WAY HE SAID, “ABIE,” WAS ENOUGH. I WAS THE BUTT OF ALL THE LOCKER ROOM JOKES AND HEARD THEIR CRUEL REMARKS SUPPOSEDLY OUT OF EARSHOT.

I WAS THE BEST FRESHMAN PITCHER IN THE CONFERENCE, AND WHEN THEY ALL LEARNED I COULD HANDLE MYSELF OFF AND ON THE FIELD, THANKS TO BEN, I STARTED GETTING ALONG. EVEN THAT SONOFABITCH OF A COACH KNEW HE’D BETTER TREAT ME TENDER BECAUSE WITHOUT ME THAT BUNCH OF MACKERELS WOULD BE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STANDINGS.

THE TEAM HUSTLED FOR ME BUT IT WAS THE OPPOSITION THAT GOT TO ME. YOU SEE, I LOOKED EASY TO HIT, BUT I WASN’T. I PLATED SOME PRETTY GOOD SEMI-PRO BALL IN NORFOLK AGAINST A LOT OF GUYS WHO HAD ONCE BEEN PROFESSIONAL PLAYERS AND HELL, THESE COLLEGE FRESHMEN WERE A BUNCH OF WILD ASS SWINGERS ALWAYS SHOOTING FOR THE FENCES. THEY CROAKED WITH FRUSTRATION, WHEN THEY COULDN’T HIT MY JUNK AND SOFT STUFF. AFTER I SAW THEM SWING A COUPLE OF TIMES I USUALLY HAD THEM EATING OUT OF MY HAND.

ANYHOW, MY HEAD BECAME THE BIGGEST TARGET IN THE CONFERENCE. IN THE FIRST FOUR GAMES—I WON THEM ALL BY SHUTOUTS—I WAS HIT BY OPPOSING PITCHERS SIX TIMES. FORTUNATELY I CAUGHT THEM ALL IN THE LEGS AND RIBS. BUT NONE OF THEM COULD MAKE ME BACK AWAY AT THE PLATE. I GUESS YOU MIGHT SAY I DARED THEM TO HIT ME.

“ABIE,” OLD RED NECK SAID, “YOU’RE A RIGHT HANDED PITCHER AND A LEFT HANDED HITTER. WHEN YOU CROWD THE PLATE YOU’RE EXPOSING YOUR PITCHING ARM. I DON’T WANT YOU TO BE NO HERO. DON’T CROWD THE PLATE. YOU’RE BEING PAID TO PITCH, NOT HIT.”

HELL, I KNOW I WAS A BANJO HITTER. LOUD SINGLES AND AN OCCASIONAL DOUBLE, BUT I HUNG IN THERE. I GUESS IT HAD TO HAPPEN. ONE DAY A STRONG BACKED SCATTER-ARMED LEFTY FROM DUKE CAUGHT ME WITH A BLAZER RIGHT ABOVE MY ELBOW AND BUSTED IT.

WHEN I CAME OUT OF THE CAST, I EXERCISED UNTIL I CRIED. THE DAMAGE WASN’T PERMANENT, BUT I COULDN’T REGAIN MY PIN POINT CONTROL. ALL THOSE BALLS I THREW AT THE GARAGE DOOR, ALL THE DAYS OF CATCH WITH BEN WERE DOWN THE DRAIN. THE ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT KINDLY INFORMED ME THAT MY SCHOLARSHIP WASN’T AVAILABLE ANY LONGER.

POPPA WANTED ME TO STAY IN COLLEGE, BUT I WAS GETTING THE FEELING THAT YOU CAN’T LEARN TO WRITE FROM COLLEGE PROFESSORS. ESPECIALLY PROFESSORS WHO DIDN’T KNOW MY BROTHER BEN, OR ANYTHING ABOUT THE THINGS I WANTED TO WRITE. AND MY BASEBALL CAREER WAS OVER, WHICH WAS NO GREAT LOSS.

I QUIT AFTER MY FRESHMAN YEAR AND AFTER NAGGING A LOT OF NEWSPAPERS I WAS HIRED BY THE VIRGINIA PILOT AS THE AVIATION EDITOR AT THIRTY BUCKS A WEEK. AT NIGHT I WROTE FOR THE PULP MAGAZINES LIKE “DOC SAVAGE” AND “DIME WESTERN” FOR A PENNY A WORD UNDER THE NAME OF HORACE ABRAHAM.

AND THEN ONE DAY I GOT TIRED OF THE PULPS AND BEGAN TO WORK ON MY NOVEL, THE ONE ABOUT BEN.

3

D
AVID
S
HAWCROSS WAS MORE
than a publisher. He was an editor of near legendary proportions running what was tantamount to a one-man house. He had emerged from the ranks of the English publishing dynasty, starting as errand boy at five shillings a week and working up to editor in chief over a period of two decades.

When he was twenty-one Shawcross headed the popular publication division for the notable sum of thirty shillings a week. In order to exist he deviled on the side synopsizing incoming manuscripts for other publishers.

David Shawcross survived all of this through sheer brilliant editorial talent. He refused to become a company henchman although named to the board.

Shawcross quit at a time of his own choosing and began his own small publishing firm.

Shawcross rarely published more than a dozen books a year but each carried a special merit and it seemed that once a year one of his books dented the best seller lists. Good writers were attracted to the house because of its quality reputation and the desire to have David Shawcross as their editor.

As a small publisher he had to stay afloat through new talent, which not only required sharp instincts but endless digging. Americans were the most popular writers in the world, but he was unable to bid against the large British firms for them. He did it in another way.

By astute analysis he knew that the major American editors ran on a treadmill that gave them little or no time to pursue and develop new talent and, moreover, no American publisher had an adequate system of covering unsolicited manuscripts or nursing along a promising talent.

The senior editors were consumed with manuscripts of their published writers plus a never ending round of sales conferences, making contracts, swimming the sea of cocktail parties, giving lectures, attending the necessary Broadway plays, and entertaining visiting firemen. Junior editors had nearly no power to push a promising manuscript. Furthermore, the pressurized atmosphere of New York generally lead to two or three martinis at lunch and watered down any desire to delve into unpublished manuscripts from unknown authors. David Shawcross commented that publishing was the only business in the world that did nothing to perpetuate itself. Every publisher had a history of allowing eventual best sellers to slip through his hands, mainly through stupidity.

Somewhere in every sludge pile there was a publishable book or a potential author who needed a hand to “cross the line.” So he made an annual trip to America and dug. In a decade Shawcross discovered a half dozen new American authors including the sensational Negro James Morton Linsey, who became a major literary figure.

Abraham Cady’s manuscript sat on an agent’s desk on a day he was visited by David Shawcross. It had been taken on by the agent on the recommendation of one of his authors, who was a columnist on the
Virginia Pilot
, where Abe worked as aviation editor. The book had been rejected seven times for seven different reasons.

That night at the Algonquin Hotel, Shawcross arranged a half dozen pillows around his hack, adjusted the lamp, and laid out an array of tobacco. He perched his specs on his nose and balanced the blue-covered manuscript on his belly. As he turned the pages he dribbled ashes down his front, an absent-minded smoker of cigars, who left a telltale calling card of matches, ashes, burn holes, and an occasional flash fire in a wastebasket. At four o’clock in the morning he closed the manuscript of Abraham Cady’s
The Brothers.
There were tears in his eyes.

Abe drew a deep breath as he entered the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel, that famed paneled domain of writers and actors. His voice was shaky as he asked for Mr. Shawcross’s suite.

Abe knocked on the door of 408.

“Please come in.” A plump, ruddy-cheeked tailored Englishman took his raincoat and hung it up. “Why you’re no more than a boy,” he said as he plopped into a high-backed chair with the manuscript spread on the coffee table before him. He thumbed through page after page, dripping a few ashes, brushing them off, then looked at the lad glued to the corner of the sofa and snatched off his glasses with a deliberate gesture.

“There’s a million would be writers in this world to every writer,” he said, “because they’re thick-headed and too much in love with their own words to listen. Now, I think what you’ve got here shows promise but it needs work.”

“I came to listen, Mr. Shawcross. I’ll try not to be thickheaded but maybe I am, I don’t know.”

Shawcross smiled. Cady had his own mind, all right.

“I’ll spend a few days working with you. The rest will be up to you.”

“Thank you, sir. I got some time off from the paper in case it was needed.”

“I am going to caution you, young Cady, that I’ve tried this many times and rarely succeeded. Most writers resent criticism and those who don’t mind and seem to understand what I’m driving at lack the ability to comprehend and translate it into publishable material. It’s all very, very difficult.”

“You’d better believe I’m going to make it,” Abe said.

“Very well, I’ve booked a room for you down the hall. Unpack your things and let’s have a go at it.”

For Abraham Cady, it was a luxurious experience. David Shawcross showed why he was one of the world’s best editors. Not to write through Cady’s pen but to get the best out of Cady. Basic storytelling was the key most authors never learn. Get the hero up a tree and cut the limb behind him. Pace. Stopping a chapter at an exquisite instance of suspense. Overwriting, the cardinal curse of all new authors. Underwriting ... throwing away in two lines a situation that could be milked for several chapters. It is all right to lecture as long as you lecture subtly but never let a speech interfere with the flow of the story.

And the key trick that few novelists know. A novelist must know what his last chapter is going to say and one way or another work toward that last chapter. Too many writers start with a good idea and carry it through the first chapters, then fall apart because they had no idea where the top of the mountain was in the first place.

At the end of three days, Abraham Cady had listened carefully and questioned without anger. Abe returned to Norfolk and began his rewrite. This, Shawcross told him, the rewriting and rewriting separated the authors from the would be authors.

When a young man sets sail on the sea of authorship he is alone with little knowledge of the winds and tides and swells and storms. There are so many questions that can only be answered by persistence. And he went through it again, the awful loneliness, the exhaustion, the rare instances of exhilaration. And his book was done.

“Abe,” Morris called over the phone. There’s a cablegram for you.”

“Read it, Poppa.”

“O.K. It says, ‘Manuscript received and read. Well done. I will be pleased to publish it straight away. My regards and congratulations. Signed, David Shawcross.’ ”