Authors: Tom Grimes
Mentor: A Memoir (27 page)
During our twenty-hour drive to Texas, Jody often slept, or pretended to sleep, in order to protect herself from my obsession with why Frank hadn’t called. Crossing Alabama, I debated—compulsively, yet silently—where, in Frank’s life, my manuscript resided. Leaning against the front door in its unopened envelope? Lying on his bedside table? Glued to his hands because he was too engrossed to put it down? Or hidden on a shelf, largely unread? Jody knew I’d begin my interrogation regarding Frank’s opinion the instant she opened one eye; I knew that, at some point, she had to wake up; and the moment she did, I said, “Why do you think Frank hasn’t called about the book?”
Barely conscious, she said, “He probably hasn’t read it yet.”
“But he
will
read it?”
will
read it?”
“Yes, he’ll read it, when he has the time.”
“Why wouldn’t he have the time?” (I’d blocked out the workshop’s eight hundred application manuscripts.)
“Because he’s busy.”
I paused (on purpose). Then I said, “Should I call him?”
“No.”
“I mean when we get home?” (She knew I meant from the next gas station.)
“No.”
“But you’re sure he’ll read it?”
“Yes.”
“You think he’ll like it?”
“I don’t know.”
She slept through Mississippi and woke in Louisiana.
“What if he doesn’t like it?”
“He’ll tell you he doesn’t like it.”
“Why wouldn’t he like it?”
She napped again and regained consciousness in East Texas.
“Let’s just say . . .”
“He’ll love it, okay? He’ll love it. Satisfied?”
Once we reached our house—it remains impossible for me to call Texas “home”—I checked our answering machine. I heard several voices, but not the one voice I wanted to hear.
My anxiety was not unique, however. By uncanny coincidence, while I awaited Frank’s approval of my novel, he wrote an essay entitled “My Teacher,” prompted by his experience at the man’s memorial service. In 1954—the year I was born—Frank was eighteen and a freshman at Haverford College. Like me at his age, he “wanted desperately to be a writer.” In an English composition class, he met his only writing teacher, a man he called, in the essay, Professor Cipher. Frank first encountered him “at an informal student-faculty mixer under a striped tent behind the library a few days before the start of classes.” Instantly, the man became Frank’s idol and, perhaps unconsciously, a model for Frank’s behavior, in the same manner that Frank later became my object of adulation. Frank marveled at “the speed and agility of his [teacher’s] mind, his intensity and an air of mild cynicism, which,” as Frank wrote, “for some reason I thought was terrific.” More importantly, “Professor Cipher
had published a novel
.” To impress him, Frank submitted, along with his weekly critical paper, a “dramatization” of their meeting, which earned him an audience in the man’s office.
had published a novel
.” To impress him, Frank submitted, along with his weekly critical paper, a “dramatization” of their meeting, which earned him an audience in the man’s office.
Describing it, Frank wrote:
Books covered all four walls and most of the floor. There were no shelves, simply stacks of books four or five feet high leaning precariously against the walls, mounds of books in corners, books strewn across the floor, occasional open volumes whose pages would flip at a breeze through the open window. I handled my own books with reverence, and stored them neatly; Professor Cipher seemed to use a shovel. But,” for Frank, “the shock left almost instantly, and suddenly the disorder seemed thrilling—some kind of rejection of materialism, perhaps, or simply the urge to literally swim in books, or a vaguely aristocratic disdain for order. Whatever it was, I thought, it was probably very Harvard, very Oxford and Cambridge, and therefore magically wonderful.
To a lesser degree—thanks to Connie’s regular neatening of it—Frank’s office maintained the tradition of absentminded disorder—the casual clutter and overflowing ashtray. I had bought, framed, and given Frank a special photograph, which I’d spotted in a magazine. I’d tracked down the photographer and paid him for a negative, as well as permission to reproduce the image. In the picture, rain falls as a pool table stands on a muddy, countryside road. Around it, three Chinese men wear drab, mandarin-collared shirts and baggy trousers. Two smoke cigarettes. And as the three observe him, a fourth man holds a pool cue, leans over the table, and lines up a shot. When I handed him the photograph, Frank studied it. Then he smiled and said, “It’ll lend the office just the right touch of insanity. I’ll have Connie hang it up.” But he didn’t. He set it on a shelf and, when I returned to teach the following summer, I found it lying face up, the frame’s glass pane cracked, and the photograph puzzlingly crumpled. Scanning the plaster wall, looking for a bent or loose nail, I found nothing, not even an indentation. The negligence was quintessential Frank. So, rather than repair the picture, I laid it on his open dictionary and imagined his momentary bewilderment the next time he wanted a word’s definition.
But despite the condition of their offices, on the page Frank and Professor Cipher demanded clarity. Ready to discuss his prose, Frank stood in Professor Cipher’s office doorway until his teacher recognized him. “‘Ah, yes. Mr. Conroy,’ he said, shuffling through the papers on his desk.” Once he located Frank’s four-page “dramatization,” he added, “‘Come around and sit here where you can see.’” After taking his seat, Frank “saw with alarm that the first page was covered with red markings. ‘Pay attention,’ [Professor Cipher] said. ‘I’ll walk you through this time, but in the future it’ll be up to you to figure out what I mean.’ He gave a slightly evil chuckle,” Frank wrote. “Then, tapping the pages every now and then to indicate one of his red marks, he began talking very rapidly. ‘Awk’ is ‘awkward,’ usually a question of rhythm, usage, grammar, or overwriting. ‘Cli’ is ‘cliché.’ ‘Rep’ is ‘repetition,’ something you’ve already said, a device you’ve already used or a stylistic tic. ‘Unc’ is ‘unclear,’ which means either I don’t understand what you’re saying or you’re saying something that can be understood in more than one way. I mean the literal meaning. You understand?’”
This discussion could have been Frank talking to me on any number of occasions, for at the heart of the conversation lies a boy’s longing to learn his mentor’s secrets, the way his knowledge controlled the world and therefore made him seemingly perfect and absolute.
Frank wrote, “‘I think so,’ I said, attempting to conceal my excitement. I had always written by instinct, and the idea that he was taking my writing seriously enough to do line-by-line editing made me tremble.”
Likewise, in Texas, I trembled. My novel wouldn’t exist until Frank acknowledged it, and it wouldn’t be good unless he said so.
At first, Professor Cipher’s approach to Frank’s work was impersonal, just as, to Frank, I once was no more than the sum of what I wrote. But our relationships with our teachers—Frank’s with his, and mine with Frank—evolved into crippling dependencies.
“I relished every moment I spent with the man,” Frank wrote, “especially tutorial. I worked hard to be worthy of his faith and rapidly gained control of my language. (“You are a racehorse,” he once said to me, “among elephants.” I glowed for weeks.) He was no doubt ‘projecting,’ (as the psychoanalysts used to say) onto me. His youthful artistic ambitions, perhaps. Much more, I was ‘projecting’ onto him, seeing him as something close to a god on earth.”
The day Frank graduated Professor Cipher said to him, “‘You’re going to be a writer. . . . Better find yourself a rich wife.’ And then—a breathtakingly daring and uncharacteristic thing for him to do—he gave me a fast little hug.”
With me, Frank was equally reticent. For years, we shook hands, nothing more. But one cold, drizzly afternoon, after lunch, I put my arms around him, as he was about to open his car door. Startled, he didn’t pull away, but his embrace was tentative, as if he didn’t quite know how to hug me.
At the end of his essay, Frank wrote:
It was good that as an adult I had carefully examined the dynamics of my own youthful projections onto Cipher, because that allowed me to deal better with the phenomenon when, now and then, a student would temporarily project onto me. For some young writers, it is no more than a necessary stage and should be handled with respect, tact, as much measured generosity as can be managed and, of course, common sense. There is no need to back off quite as much as Cipher had backed off from me.
Yet Frank and I never “backed off ” from each other, emotionally. Instead, we echo each other. He wrote about his late teacher; unexpectedly, I now am writing about mine.
At the beginning of February I called Frank, prepared to hear his disappointment regarding my novel. I was also afraid that he’d think I’d lost my talent, my promise, and my mind. Three years had passed since we’d sold
Season’s End
. In light of its failure, had Frank decided to distance himself from the book and, therefore, distance himself from me? True, he’d spoken highly of me to Rust Hills and, once again, had invited me to teach at Iowa. But what if the new novel changed his feelings? I wanted to believe that his love was unconditional, rather than contingent upon my literary success, but I wasn’t certain. So I called not only to ask about my novel but also, indirectly, to ask about our future.
Season’s End
. In light of its failure, had Frank decided to distance himself from the book and, therefore, distance himself from me? True, he’d spoken highly of me to Rust Hills and, once again, had invited me to teach at Iowa. But what if the new novel changed his feelings? I wanted to believe that his love was unconditional, rather than contingent upon my literary success, but I wasn’t certain. So I called not only to ask about my novel but also, indirectly, to ask about our future.
When he heard my voice, he said, “Professor Grimes!”—not “Hey, babe,” or “Tom!” Unintentionally, he’d demoted me from author to instructor.
“The novel’s that bad,” I said.
Surprised, he paused, then said, “To the contrary, my friend.”
“It’s good?”
“It’s better than good.”
Not everyone agreed, but after speaking to Frank and having my questions about the novel and his affection for me answered, I could no longer be wounded. Disheartened, maybe; unpublished, certainly; but not artistically devastated. I’d written a far from conventional novel, in part because I felt constricted by literary realism. But I also wanted to write a novel that none of my peers was attempting to write. In the way that Frank’s failed first novel had provided him with the rage necessary to create
Stop-Time
, I used
Season’s End
’s failure to write a more, rather than a less, ambitious novel. And while I wanted Frank to tell me the book was good, despite the fact that his enthusiasm for
Season’s End
may have blinded him to that novel’s flaws, my anxiety subsided because—good novel or bad—he’d committed to taking the trip with me ; the
artistic
trip, not the
publishing
trip, which didn’t begin well. Neil, Eric’s former assistant, had taken on Eric’s clients, and his letter to me about the novel began,
Dear Tom, You’ ll probably want to stick a pencil through my eye
. Neil didn’t think the novel accomplished what I’d hoped it would accomplish. Knowing I’d spent two years writing it, he regretted having to tell me so. Separately, Candida wrote,
Tom, your prose is nothing short of amazing. If I wore a hat, I’ d take my hat off to you. But I can think of only five or six editors I could send this to.
The book’s ironic voice, they felt, didn’t serve the book’s dark sensibility. Form and content hadn’t fused flawlessly to produce a work of art. With Eric no longer working for the agency, I felt more like a burden than a client to Neil and Candida. This delusion, Frank assured me, was all in my head. But in my head is where I live. So I thanked them for their generosity and their effort on my work’s behalf, and I started over.
Stop-Time
, I used
Season’s End
’s failure to write a more, rather than a less, ambitious novel. And while I wanted Frank to tell me the book was good, despite the fact that his enthusiasm for
Season’s End
may have blinded him to that novel’s flaws, my anxiety subsided because—good novel or bad—he’d committed to taking the trip with me ; the
artistic
trip, not the
publishing
trip, which didn’t begin well. Neil, Eric’s former assistant, had taken on Eric’s clients, and his letter to me about the novel began,
Dear Tom, You’ ll probably want to stick a pencil through my eye
. Neil didn’t think the novel accomplished what I’d hoped it would accomplish. Knowing I’d spent two years writing it, he regretted having to tell me so. Separately, Candida wrote,
Tom, your prose is nothing short of amazing. If I wore a hat, I’ d take my hat off to you. But I can think of only five or six editors I could send this to.
The book’s ironic voice, they felt, didn’t serve the book’s dark sensibility. Form and content hadn’t fused flawlessly to produce a work of art. With Eric no longer working for the agency, I felt more like a burden than a client to Neil and Candida. This delusion, Frank assured me, was all in my head. But in my head is where I live. So I thanked them for their generosity and their effort on my work’s behalf, and I started over.
Other books
Pitcher's Baby by Saylor Bliss
Why I Write by George Orwell
Mexican Ghost Tales of the Southwest by Alfred Ávila
The Boyfriend List by Novelle, R.S., Novelle, Renee
Doctor Who: The Space Museum by Glyn Jones
The Marriage Market by Spencer, Cathy
Bad People by Cobb, Evan, Canfield, Michael
Arrow to the Soul by Lea Griffith
Stormchild by Bernard Cornwell