The Work Never Ends

Monday, May 24th, 1954

Walt’s grip was strong. It had been only a few moments from Dean entering the studio of WDAF and sitting down before Walt had walked through a door on the left, smiling broadly and reaching out to shake Dean’s hand. “Mr. Edmonds, it is a pleasure to meet you. How are you today?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

He had woken up late. The hands on his wristwatch had informed him it was past nine a.m. in the morning. But that was merely a confirmation to what his eyes had already told him. The sunlight poured into his windows, heating up the room, promising another early, and wretchedly hot, summer day.

The first anniversary of the crash had come and gone. Despite his talk with Doris in the cemetery, it had hit him two days later, a slap in the face, and he had spent two weeks in his room, brooding alone, rarely leaving. This mood had been broken with a letter from Scotty Abernathy. The excitable New Yorker had been driven crazy by Dean’s miasma. Letters had begun to roll in daily, demanding Dean call him. It seemed that At Winter’s End was continuing to climb the New York Times list.

The last missive from Scotty had included a rather long-winded diatribe on how Dean could not be complacent, and how important it was for him to call.

“Excellent. Let’s go on back to the studio and get you set up.” Walt Bodine ushered him through the studio door.

“My landlady had quite a lot to say about you, Mr. Bodine,” Dean said.

“Oh, really? And please, call me Walt.”

“Yes. She’s a professor at a local women’s college. She teaches speech and promotes proper elocution techniques.”

Walt’s head snapped back, “Oh my, what did she say?”

Dean laughed, “Really she was quite impressed. She said you had managed to eliminate the Midwestern twang fully and that your vocabulary was larger than any other radio personality she has listened to of late.”

Walt looked relieved, “Good to hear. You mentioned she is a professor?”

“Yes. Dr. Louise Abney.”

“My goodness, yes, I’ve attended one of her speeches before!”

“Well, I guess that explains it then.”

“Indeed!” They turned left and then right, the building a maze of doors and hallways. Dean was hopelessly lost by the time they reached the recording studio.

“Here we are. You will sit here. Can my girl here get you some water? Or would you prefer tea or coffee?”

“Water will be great, thank you.” Dean sat down in the seat, the large microphone centered in front of him.

Walt sat down across from him. Beside him was a copy of At Winter’s End. The slipcover was creased and there were scraps of paper sticking out at intervals.

Walt smiled, “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed this book, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Why, thank you, Walt. Hearing that never seems to get old.” Dean said. So many of the interviews he had done had been slipshod, pretentious and unimaginative. He had been feeling rather jaded of late. Certainly the book was popular, but the radio show hosts he had dealt with had relied on assistants who had read the book for them, giving them tips on what questions to ask. For some reason, he was sure that Walt Bodine had not done that. He truly had read the book and enjoyed it.

“Well, I call them how I see them. I found myself lost in the characters and the story, eager to see what would happen next. And this truly is your first novel? Are you sure you don’t have a stack of novels hidden about waiting to be published?”

Dean laughed and shook his head, “No, sorry to disappoint, but it will be a while until the next one comes out.”

Walt looked let down, “Ah well. I read it twice, by the way, and then insisted my wife read it.” He smiled at Dean. “She was captivated by it.”

He had a list of notes in front of him. “We have a few minutes before we go on the air, I hope you don’t mind if I just double-check the information I have for you. And let me know if there are any questions you wish for me to strike from the list.”

Dean nodded and Walt ran through his questions which were the standard background - where he had lived, his career up until recently, and Walt gently approached the death of his family.

A few minutes later and they were on the air.

Walt moved through the regular introductions, pointing out that Dean was a local author and mentioning that the book was still climbing the New York Times bestseller list.

Walt smiled at him, “I must admit that I read your book twice. I was absolutely drawn in by it, Mr. Edmonds. The characters, the setting, it was truly compelling.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I understand that your book is now number fifteen on the New York Times bestseller list,” Walt glanced at his notes, “Edging out Joseph Hayes’ book, The Desperate Hours.”

“Yes, I received word of that yesterday from my agent.”

“Quite impressive for a debut novel.” Walt continued.

“I owe it all to my family,” Dean answered.

“Reviews have called your book ‘visually stunning’ and there have been some who have said that your world, while beautiful, could never truly exist. What do you have to say in response to that?”

“Well Walt, my novel is fiction.” Dean answered, choosing his words carefully, “Despite this, I can’t say I agree with those critics who would sell the human spirit and experience so short. I think that we are capable of so much more, it lies within each of us, waiting only for us to access it.”

Walt asked, “In the end of the book, you mentioned your family. And you said just now that you owe this book’s success to your family. Could you tell us more about that?”

By now, he had found ways to respond to it, although the ache could still be felt in his chest, each time he had to answer. “My family, my wife and my two young children, died last year in an automobile accident. Their deaths were my wake-up call.”

“Could you tell me what you mean by that, Mr. Edmonds?”

“That all we have is this moment. That our dreams of something different should be listened to, followed, before it is too late. It took losing my family to learn that lesson. I would not be here today, if not for the crash that cost them their lives, and I very nearly lost mine as well. I cannot get them back, and make amends, make our relationships better, or watch my children grow into adults.”

Walt let a moment of silence slide by, allowing the radio listeners some time to digest this. “I am sorry for your loss, Dean. And yet, you speak so honestly in the book, and paint such detailed descriptions of your characters. It feels as if your family has been given life within these pages.”

Dean nodded and realized it didn’t translate over a radio. “Yes, I did borrow heavily on my memories of them for this story. I wanted them to live again, at least in some form. But at some point, reality ends and fiction takes over. Honore is not my wife June, nor am I the Antoine described in the story. Perhaps a hopeful wish of who I should have been, who I would have liked to have been, but not the me who was June’s flesh and blood husband.”

“We are often consumed with regret.” Walt said.

“Indeed.”

The interview continued for half an hour and he was waylaid twice on the way out of the building as several employees eagerly asked for his autograph in their newly purchased copies. The day was far from over, now he had a book signing to go to a few blocks away.

“Should I call you a cab, sir?” A pretty young girl at the reception desk asked.

“I’ll just catch the streetcar, thank you, Miss.” Dean said, tipping his hat. Outside the sun was shining, but Dean could feel the moisture in the air. There would be another storm tonight for sure.

He reached the stop for the streetcar just in time. The round-domed, cream-colored trolleys always reminded him of the butter cream frosting his mother had lavished on his birthday cakes over the years. She had passed away in 1950, just a couple of months after Betty was born.

Dean stepped aboard and paid the five cent fare. The trolley was nearly empty. This was surprising, Dean remembered riding it in his youth. Day or night, the cars were full of passengers. But now, in the middle of the day, the car held him, the driver and just two others.

The ride wouldn’t take long, and although it was humid, the cooler spring temperatures were still holding. He settled back in a seat and thought of his mother.

His father, Arthur, had been strict and very distant. Clara Edmonds, on the other hand, had been loving and affectionate. He had been the only one of her children to live, after all. A string of miscarriages had culminated in only two live births. He remembered the birth of his sister. Her short life remained indelibly printed upon his memory. He had been three and she, born far too early, had struggled to live. He remembered standing next to her crib, reaching to stroke her hand, crabbed and red. Her tiny body had twitched, desperately fighting for each breath in. Irene Edmonds had lasted for nearly two weeks, before fading away. Afterward, his mother had cried and cried, retiring to her bed and refusing to eat.

There had been no more pregnancies or babies after that. And the giant house, with three of its bedrooms standing empty, was far too large for a small boy to grow up in alone. Despite this, his parents never bothered to look for another, even after their dreams of a large family to fill it had sputtered and died.

Doris Jenkins had written him when it sold and told him that the family, a well-off lawyer, his wife and six children, had put an offer on it after their first visit. It was a relief. He had held onto the house for far too long. Knowing that there was a family living, laughing and growing up within its walls had been some measure of solace. He didn’t miss his boyhood home, or wish to live in it, but he felt as if it deserved some happiness now.

When the conductor called out “Eleventh Street, coming up!” Dean straightened his jacket and pulled the string. As he emerged from the streetcar, he scanned the buildings for the bookstore and located it quickly.

As he walked in, a young salesgirl looked up and smiled, “Welcome to Glenn Frank Books. May I help you find anything?” The store was busy, bustling with customers.

“Yes, I’m Dean Edmonds, I’m here for my book signing.”

The girl jumped from her perch and came around the corner, “Oh, Mr. Edmonds! Mr. Frank is expecting you, right this way.”

Dean found himself led to a large room in the back. Already a crowd had gathered. Dean’s book had appealed to both women and men, judging by the sea of faces he saw staring at him expectantly. He checked his watch, fifteen minutes to spare. A tall, lean man noticed Dean come in and advanced, his right hand held out.

“Mr. Edmonds, thank you for coming!” He beamed down at Dean, shaking his hand with a bone-crushing grip.

“Mr. Frank, I take it?”

“Yes, indeed! Please, come this way,” he said as he ushered Dean to the podium. “You will be here. I’ll be back momentarily with a glass of water.” The man hurried away.

There were stacks and stacks of At Winter’s End on a table near the back and, from what he could tell, most of the sea of bookstore patrons already had one in their hands. It seemed that a home grown author was big news.

Dean set his satchel on the floor and pulled a worn copy of his book out. It was marked at places with slips of paper - these were his favorite passages. The buzz of voices was loud, although there had been a lull as he took his place at the podium. A moment later, Mr. Frank was back with the promised glass of water, setting a pitcher down on a nearby table before clearing his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could kindly take your seats.”

The crowd quieted.

“I am honored to have one of our own, a Kansas City native, and talented author of the book At Winter’s End here this afternoon. Mr. Edmonds will be reading passages from his book and then will be available for book signing directly after.” Mr. Frank cast a glance down at his notes, “And I’ve just received confirmation that At Winter’s End has now risen to thirteenth on the New York Times bestseller list, having outperformed Samuel Shellabarger’s book Lord Vanity!

The audience erupted in applause and the bookstore owner waited for a moment for the noise to die down before he continued.

“Not many debut authors make such a large impression as Mr. Edmonds has in just a few short months. His characters have been described as compelling and his prose throughout At Winter’s End is both vivid and concise.” He looked up from his notes and smiled at Dean standing at the podium, “But why take my word for it? Here is Mr. Edmonds himself. He is here to take you on a journey into a world you will never want to leave.”

He shook Dean’s hand and walked away from the podium while the audience clapped again. As Dean began to read the excerpts to his audience a few minutes later, there was absolute silence. By the time he had finished with his readings, the room had filled with even more people. It was standing room only and they hung on each word he uttered.

After the applause for his reading had died down, Mr. Frank had asked those who wanted autographed copies to line up along the wall. It snaked around all sides and out of the door. Dean signed his name over and over, his hand aching. Slowly the line dwindled down to a handful of patrons.

Dean reached for the last book. He noted that the hand holding it was slender, feminine, and hidden in a pair of white cotton gloves. He looked up at a familiar, smiling face.

“Hello Mr. Edmonds, I see you got around to writing that book.” Her face held the same, warm smile that he had looked forward to each day in the hospital.

“Maggie! What a wonderful surprise!” He stood, “I’m so glad to see you!” His hands enveloped hers, the others in the room forgotten.

“You remember me, then.”

“How could I forget? I looked forward to your shift every day. A spot of light in my otherwise dark day. How are you?”

It felt different, seeing her here. She wore a simple, flowered dress with a gathered neckline. Her honey colored hair was pulled back in a demure bun and she had a touch of blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were the same lovely shade of blue he had remembered. She was a beautiful young woman. He couldn’t help noticing it.

“I’m well.” She looked somewhat nervous, “But, I shouldn’t keep you. I just saw the notice last week that you would be here. I wanted to hear you read from your book. I had the day off, so I had no excuse not to come and see you.”

“I’m so glad you did.” Dean realized he was still holding both of her hands in his. He dropped them self-consciously, shook his head, and smiled at her. “Forgive me, here I am just staring at you like a country bumpkin. Let me sign your book.”

She smiled at him, and he could smell her perfume. It was a gentle scent, reminiscent of the hedge of lavender his grandmother used as a border in her front yard.

He signed inside of the cover with a flourish and handed it back to her.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Edmonds, I look forward to reading it.”

“Please, call me Dean.” He held her gaze for a moment.

She bit her lip, but managed a small, warm smile before she broke eye contact.

“Well thanks again, Mr...er...Dean.”

He nodded at Maggie. Her face and voice had filled far too many of his dreams over the past few months. He watched as she turned and walked away. Her skirt swished as she moved, her heels clicking on the wood floor.

The owner of the bookstore stepped forward, “Mr. Edmonds, I am so glad that...”

Dean was not listening. His eyes remained fixed on Maggie's retreating form. He watched as she approached the cash register. She paused then, digging into her boxy purse and removing a slim wallet.

Without a glance at the bookstore owner, Dean walked away, everything else graying out except his focus on her. He drew near as Maggie pulled a tattered dollar bill out and began to dig for coins.

“Here,” he said as he set down a five dollar bill, “It’s on me.”

Maggie’s cheeks reddened. “Mr. Edmonds, I have enough, I do.” Her gloved hand snatched up the five-dollar bill and handed it back to him. “As a writer, you won’t ever make any money giving away your books!”

Chastened, he took the money back from her. A sudden longing washed over him. He wanted to talk with her again, to share his thoughts with her on the latest book he was reading, a disturbing, yet fascinating book by William Golding.

Maggie was beautiful, but what fascinated him beyond that was her quick wit and literary enthusiasm. He watched as the cashier took her money, wrapped the book in paper and twine and thanked her.

Her bright smile washed over him again, “It was so good to see you again, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Yes, Maggie, likewise. I hope you enjoy the book.” He ended lamely, wincing as he did. Could I sound more ridiculous?

“I am sure I will, Mr. Edmonds.” The salesgirl was still watching them. “Well, goodbye then.”

He watched her walk away. She stepped out of the store, turned right, and climbed into a trolley that had just rolled to a stop. Within seconds she was gone from view, lost in the crowd.

“Dean Edmonds, you are a fool.”

“Sir?” The salesgirl looked confused.

He blinked, smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, just talking to myself.”

The girl flashed a huge smile in return. Her teeth were twisted, crowded in her small narrow mouth. “I do that all the time.”

Later, as he headed back to the small rented room on Tenth Street, he thought about Maggie. She had been the only one to see him as more than just a business owner. She had shared with him her ragged collection of books and guided him back to his love of literature.

Why didn’t I tell her that?

He thought to himself as he heated a can of beans up on the stove.

And why didn’t I ask her out to dinner?