A Familiar Voice

January 19th, 1954

The phone rang in the front hall. Dean called to Danny to get it, but the boy was out with his dog, playing fetch, or having some kind of dog-friendly snowball fight with Cassie, who was now chest-high on the boy and full of long-legged hyperactivity.

Dean had just ambled down the stairs and into the kitchen for more coffee. His leg felt stiff that morning, especially now that the weather had turned so cold. By the fifth ring, he had made his way to the bottom of the stairs, just as June, still dusting flour from her hands, managed to answer it.

“Hello?” she said. There was a short pause and her eyebrows raised, “I beg your pardon?”

“Who is it?” Dean asked her as she handed him the receiver.

“Some guy who just asked if I was the ‘dame of the house,’” June said, sniffing in displeasure.

Dean smiled, he had a sneaking suspicion he knew who was on the other end of the line. “East coast accent?”

“How did you know?” June asked.

“Lucky guess.” He put his mouth to the receiver, “This is Dean Edmonds speaking.”

June stood there, hands on her hips, scowling. She had a dusting of flour on the tip of her nose. Dean wondered if she was trying the beignet recipe he had asked her about. Whatever she was doing, the heavenly smells originating in the kitchen were making his mouth water.

The voice on the other end was unmistakable, “Dino! You don’t know me, but whatever you do, my man, do not hang up! I gotta tell ya that Viking Press is gonna screw ya if you don’t take me on as your agent. What I lack for in clientele I make up for in contracts.”

Dean repressed a smile and nodded at June. “It’s okay,” he mouthed quietly to her. She made an annoyed harrumph, turned on her heel and headed back to the kitchen.

“Hey, Dino? You still there? Have I got the right number?” The receiver crackled.

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Good to hear. Never can tell when I’m callin’ the armpit of the world, or...Oh hey, I didn’t mean you, I was talkin’ about those damn fools down in Tennessee.” The voice paused, “I’m diggin’ myself in deeper, aren’t I?”

Dean laughed, “Sort of. So, what can I do for you?” He knew who this man was. He had spoken to Scotty Abernathy on a monthly basis for close to eight years. Well, eight years in another life, if that made any sense. Part of him wanted to say it out loud. The memories that he had were so real, even now. He couldn’t explain it, and it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It simply was what it was.

Dean had spent the last six months reconciling himself to that fact. Somehow, he had seen into the future and in some way, experienced it. But Maggie? And Teddy? No matter the amount of surreptitious sleuthing he had done while June and the children were out, he had found no trace of them. Nothing that corroborated their existence.

The tiny house on Twenty-Seventh Terrace near Hospital Hill had been occupied by another family. The woman had been red-haired and fat, her two children equally red-haired, and her scrawny henpecked husband had stared at Dean with a mixture of awe and resentment when he had driven by in his shiny new car.

“Well, damn, you have to be wondering who I am by now.” The jocular voice on the other end of the line said, his words running together as only those rushing from one point to the other can manage. “My name is Scott Abernathy, but everyone just calls me Scotty. I’m calling to tell you that I’m your new best friend.”

“Are you now?” Dean couldn’t make it easy for him. He had learned, albeit after the first book was out and an exclusive contract signed, that he hadn’t negotiated as low a rate as he could have. Perhaps this time around, things could be different.

“Why yes, I am. Y’see, I was over at Viking Press the other day and they were talking you up amongst them. I overheard what they are offering you, Mr. Edmonds and let me just say, I can get you a far sweeter deal than that.”

Scotty’s voice continued, running through what was word-for-word the same discussion Dean remembered having with him before.

Dean half-listened, making small, noncommittal noises at all of the appropriate moments and thought about the past six months.

With June’s support, he had sold his parents’ house, along with Edmonds Manufacturing.

Doyle Laurel and Howard Jenkins had jumped at the opportunity. They had both started out on the ground floor, one of the company’s first employees, and steadily risen up through the ranks. They had been indispensable by the time Dean had graduated from short pants, and both had worked hard to make the company the success that it was. The three of them had sat down and negotiated an even better figure than the one Dean had conservatively guessed at for June, and signed the papers a week later.

Dean and June had enough funds from that and the sale of his parents’ house to keep them comfortably for the rest of their lives. It would even pay for Danny and Betty to go to college. Just over a month ago, Dean had bet on the underdog, the Detroit Lions, in the NFL championship game. The odds had been overwhelmingly in favor of the Cleveland Browns, but Dean had insisted on betting a stunning amount on the Lions, and won a pretty penny on the game. He had turned around and used the winnings to invest in two companies - Pfizer and IBM - which had both been showing a steady profit by 1962. He had nearly eight more years to wait on those results, but Dean had a good feeling about the investment.

The rest of the manuscript for Schicksal Turnpike had burst forth in a gush last fall. By the time the leaves in the trees were turning red and gold, he had gone through two edits, with June by his side. She had read the final pages and addressed the envelope to Viking Press herself, insisting it was ready.

“No Dean, don’t you dare do another edit.” She had insisted, her spirited side showing, “I mean it. Turn it in. It’s perfect.”

They had mailed it together the next day, her driving the entire way to the post office. Three weeks later he had received a letter from Viking Press.

The driving lessons had gone well. Well, almost. June had managed to dent the right corner of the rear fender, edging too close to a street sign. The look of mortification on her face was evidence that she felt bad enough over it.

Scotty’s voice interrupted his reverie, “So I’m gonna send you some papers, Dino. I think you will find that six percent is more than fair. You won’t get a better deal than that.”

“Hm, well, I’m not sure about that.”

There was a crackling pause, “Have you spoken to any other agents yet? I could possibly negotiate that down half a percent.”

“Make it three percent and you’ve got a deal,” Dean returned, grinning wider. “And you’ll negotiate an extra four percent from Viking in exchange for that.”

“What? Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, man! Does the Midwest breed some kinda poker players from hell? Three percent! You’re killin’ me here!” Scotty sputtered.

“Scotty, you know this book is going to climb the charts. You read it. Get me the deal with Viking, take the three percent, and send me the papers.” Dean insisted, “You’ll make it up in sales. Besides, I’ve got three more in the wings that I’m working on now.”

June leaned out of the kitchen and raised an eyebrow at him. She knew he had all of three pages of notes on one book, not three. Dean had showed them to her yesterday morning.

“I’ll get back to ya.” A dial tone sounded in Dean’s ear.

He smiled, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“Who was that?” June asked. Dean walked over to her, reached up and wiped the smudge of flour off of her nose and kissed her.

“A literary agent. His name is Scotty Abernathy,” Dean answered, “I’ve heard he is very good. Rough around the edges, but good. He will get me a better deal on that manuscript than Viking was willing to offer and I made him cut his rate by half.”

“Is he going to take that?” June asked, perplexed, “I mean, can you even do that?”

“Everything is negotiable, my love.” Dean said, slipping his hand around her waist and nuzzling her neck.

“Dean Edmonds, you stop that right now, I’ve got a pie in the oven!”

“Mm, how about a bun in the oven?” He murmured, his lips on her ear, nibbling, as he pulled her closer. She was wearing the new perfume he had bought her.

He laughed as she smacked him half-heartedly with her towel. She giggled and kissed him before pulling away.

“You are incorrigible! Now let me go, we have Howard and Doris Jenkins coming for dinner and I have a pot roast to get started!”

Dean made his way upstairs. He had a couple of hours left before the Jenkins arrived. He might as well get some writing done.

A week later he received a large envelope in the mail. There was the Viking Press contract and his agent/author contract, both from Scotty Abernathy’s office. Scotty had given him everything he asked for. His book, Schicksal Turnpike would be published in February of the New Year, with a country-wide book tour to follow.