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Where Words Meet

Dead Babies

If you are a writer, you write. You write a lot, as much as you can possibly do with the time, imagination, and energy you have. You pour soul, guts, blood, passion, love, and hope into your short stories and your novels. You ponder, you sweat; you worry, you fret. You don’t necessarily have a market in mind at the outset, but somewhere in the back of your mind you believe that the characters to whom you have given birth will someday find their way beyond your own computer and onto the published page so others can meet them and share the world you’ve so lovingly and agonizingly created. Your characters are your heart’s children, be they compassionate or hateful, bold or weak, bright or simple. You want to send them out beyond the backyard of your mind’s eye and a document file.

Yet some stories and novels die right there in the backyard. Granted, some should die. You look at them after a period of time and think, “Good thing this one never made it beyond my computer. It stinks and needs to be buried.” But there are other dead babies that should not be dead. Others that, even after significant time has passed and perspective has cleared, you read again and find your emotions stirred and your sense of wonder rekindled. You think once more, “Why didn’t this one find a home?”

This past week, while working on a new novel and several articles for a science textbook, I ran across a mainstream novel I wrote about six or so years ago. It is a mainstream, coming of age novel called Homegrown. It’s set in a church-run children’s home in the 1980s, with some flash forwards into the 1990s. The story deals with the traumatic upheaval the adults unwittingly force upon the teenagers when the home decides to accept seriously maladjusted kids into the fold in order to obtain state monies to keep the place afloat. The teens at the home have their own self-determined family groupings and depend almost entirely on each other for emotional support and acceptance as the adults are overwhelmed or burned out at their respective jobs. My main characters are Cooter, the peacemaker, Howard, the stoic “big brother,” and Mark, the angry teen who struggles in silence with the love he feels for another boy.

In looking over this novel again, I grieved that it remains a dead baby. My agent loved it and sent it out to a number of places when I finished it. It received excellent comments but the final verdict was that #1) I am a horror writer and this is mainstream, #2) it didn’t seem to fit what was currently popular, and #3) it’s not clear whether it is a novel for adults or for young adults.

I’m sure many of you can relate. I would bet there are very few writers who haven’t experienced this in some form or other. A story or novel you wrote that you feel captures exactly what you wanted it to capture. Yet it can’t find a good home. That is sad. I understand. That’s just the way it is sometimes. But we can’t help but grieve.

Homegrown remains at the top of the list of my own personal favorite novels. Maybe someday it will be resurrected and move into the light. I don’t know. But I thought, why not share a bit of it here? An excerpt from the lives of Cooter, Howard, and Mark at the Christian Children’s Home. Give them a little spot for a moment beyond the backyard. Apologies if this seems strange or too much for a blog:

Mrs. Rhodes sat at the kitchen counter on a stool, swirling a teaspoon in her favorite Nippon demitasse. She wore an apron over her dress, an apron given her by George Marion when he left for the Marines. The letters on the front read, “Since God couldn’t be everywhere, He invented Mothers.” Cooter had almost ruptured when he saw Mama Rhodes take the apron out of the gift box, and for a week afterwards he swore he could hear George’s manic laughter all the way from Parris Island. Mrs. Rhodes’ hair was covered with a red scarf; tiny curls of stray gray fluttered in the warm air stirred by the rotary fan atop the refrigerator.

Suddenly, the housemother slapped the teaspoon on the counter with a demanding clack. “And just where is Michael?”

Rollo dabbed his mouth with a yellow paper napkin. “Would you like me to go look, Mrs. Rhodes?”

Mrs. Rhodes’ head jerked with impatience. “No, Rollo, you eat. Paul, go find your roommate, please. And tell him I’d like to speak to him after breakfast.”

“He was stuck in the john when we saw him,” said Cooter.

“Guess I’ll need a crowbar to pop him off the pot,” grumbled Paul as he left the kitchen.

Mrs. Rhodes took a long breath through her nose. “You boys don’t understand, do you?” she began, seeming to speak more to the doorsill than to the boys. Cooter smeared a glob of gravy in his mouth and hung his tongue out for Howard to see. Howard didn’t grin.

Mrs. Rhodes continued, “This disrespect, this attitude of carelessness must end. Will end.” She paused. Cooter made a gravy-spit bubble and Mark, across the table, pinched his nose so he wouldn’t laugh.

“I’ve been tolerant. I don’t know if any of you have been aware of how tolerant Mr. Rhodes and I have been. We’ve allowed much more than could have been deemed best.”

Cooter ran his fork through the spit bubble and it burst. Mark grabbed his throat and made silent gagging gestures. Michael came into the kitchen, followed by Paul, and they sat with apparent reluctance in the empty seats near Mrs. Rhodes.

“But it will stop,” said Mrs. Rhodes. “It’s not just in our hands anymore. Pop Lawson has instructed that we all enforce the Cottage rules with more vigor. He has said that in spite of the changes that will come in the near future we are in the Lord’s business and we will stay firm in that commitment.”

Cooter made another bubble and elbowed Howard to look, but Howard wouldn’t look. He shrugged Cooter off. Cooter nudged Howard again, and again Howard pushed him back. Cooter couldn’t believe Howard was actually listening to Mama Rhodes.

And then Howard said softly to Cooter, “It’s the cloth stars, Cooter. Can’t you see that?”

Cooter didn’t. “Huh?”

Howard said nothing. His jaw seemed to lock.

Mrs. Rhodes said no more, and she stood, flicked a finger in Joey’s direction, and said, “You’re still on kitchen duty. Get these dishes in the sink and then find that milk top.” She pulled the scarf down over the tips of her ears. “The rest of you boys, out. And remember, as school starts Wednesday, there is a list of extra chores on the bulletin board, things that must be done between now and then. Choose your job, initial it. Make sure it’s done right.”

As the boys began to file from the kitchen, Mr. Rhodes came in, pulling an undershirt down over his chest. “Who’s going to help me sand that paint down on the porch?”

Mrs. Rhodes stepped over Joey, who was on the floor with a yardstick, knocking about under the stove for the milk top. “They’re signing up. Check the bulletin board.”

Mr. Rhodes looked at the lanky form stretched out on the floor. “Joey?”

“It’s back against the wall,” Joey said into the linoleum tile.

“Just forget it,” said Mrs. Rhodes. I’ll put plastic wrap over the top with a rubber band. Get on these dishes. Now.”

At the bulletin board in the foyer, Howard wrote “H.H.” beside cleaning gutters, and then handed the pencil to Mark.

Mark’s face clouded. “Hey, there’s nothing left but stripping paint with Mr. Rhodes. Shit, that’ll take forever. We’ll never finish by this afternoon, and I’m supposed to mow the circle.”

“Poor baby,” said Cooter.

Howard snatched the pencil and rubbed out his initials. “God, I’ll do the damn paint if it’s that big a deal.” He gave the pencil back to Mark. “Can you handle the gutters?”

Mark hesitated. “Well, yeah, sure.”

“Good. I’m going running before Rhodes finishes his breakfast.”

Howard went outside, pausing on the walk to pull up his socks. Cooter followed after him.

“Something wrong?”

Howard bounced on the balls of his feet. “No. Why?”

Cooter shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Howard looked at Cooter. Dappled shadows from the swaying maple limbs overhead gave Howard’s face an unfamiliar, strained look that Cooter didn’t like. Howard took a quick, short breath. “Want to go jogging with me?”

“It’d probably make my tongue hurt.”

“Pussy.”

“Okay,” Cooter grinned. “Let me go get my shoes.”

“Some of those African Olympic guys run barefoot,” said Howard, but Cooter shook his head. “Meet you out at the softball field.”

Cooter nodded, then skipped up the steps and onto the porch. Inside the foyer, Mr. Rhodes was reading the chore sheet on the bulletin board.

“Where does Howard think he’s off to?” he asked.

“Softball diamond.”

“Well, go call him back. I need to get on this porch right away.”

“Right now?”

Mr. Rhodes straightened, then frowned. The white hair on his head was short and as bristly as a pineapple top. “Since when do I need to explain myself to you, Mr. Farnsten?”

“I’ll go get him,” said Cooter. He went to his room for his shoes since there was a rule against being barefoot on campus. Then he kicked off the porch and headed down the walkway that led to the small gravel alley between Cottages Two and Three. He turned down the alley and then slowed his pace. Maybe Howard could get a little running done before Cooter caught up with him. Rhodes could just hold his bladder.

The alley was cool and pleasant, its sides lined with the pink blooms of crepe myrtles. Behind the crepe myrtles were well-pruned hedges that defined the backyards of the two Cottages. The hedges then angled back and away from the alley, and the pink trees ended, and to each side of the alley was visible the broad green stretch of Home grounds. The alley ended at the Home’s infirmary. It was a long white aluminum sided building with a three-car parking lot. Beside the infirmary was a second, smaller structure to which the visiting dentist came once a month, and in which the barbershop trainees would practice their trades on the heads of the Home kids. A room in the back of the second building stored items donated by area churches; shoes, clothing, blankets, toys for the younger kids.

Cooter skirted around the infirmary and trudged down a slight bank that led to the softball field. He could see Howard on the diamond, elbows pistoning slowly forward and back; his arms already shimmered with a wash of sweat. His head was tilted down as though he were watching his feet.

Cooter stopped halfway down the knoll and watched Howard cross third base and start toward home plate. Cooter could not see the expression on Howard’s face, and he wondered if he were still agitated by Mama Rhodes’ short talk. Cooter couldn’t imagine why. If there was anything worth ignoring it was Mama’s incessant speeches. Cooter wondered if Howard was maybe missing his cousins in D.C., or, more likely, feeling the pinching frustration of being separated from Rhonda.

Howard pounded along, shoes drumming steadily, puffs of dust drifting upward with each step. The dust floated on a low current of air until the current shifted, and the particles dropped to the tangled growth of weeds in left field. The late August sun was already a fierce white coal, and Howard seemed to shiver involuntarily with the heat. He crossed first base and jogged to second.

Jamming his hands into his jeans pockets, Cooter turned back toward the alley. Whatever was on his mind, Howard had enough to handle without having to suffer the wresting and football prattle Mr. Rhodes would entertain him with on the porch. Besides, Cooter thought, Howard was his friend. And Cooter owed Howard, many times over. In May, Cooter had had a seventh grade career paper due, and at a loss, had accepted a modified version of the one Howard had written three years earlier. Numerous times, Howard had invented ingenious excuses when Cooter had been late for devotions or lights-out. Last Christmas, when Cooter had been sent back early from a sponsor’s home, accused of stealing a ten dollar check, and when all the boys of Cottage One had gotten hold of the information and ripped Cooter with their relentless jokes, and when Pop Lawson had Cooter cottaged until, five days later, the sponsors called, somewhat embarrassed, to report that the check had been found in a bag of discarded wrapping paper, Howard had been Cooter’s consoler, never doubting Cooter’s innocence, sparring verbally with the other boys when Cooter had become too tired to try. And so, with time, the debt owed Howard had grown.

But the obligation was not a burden. It was, in fact, an exhilarating sensation, a proof of value, and Cooter savored the feeling. Howard was not out to collect, and so Cooter wanted very much to pay. Cooter took a little hop-step and swung his foot at a stick on the alley. He could handle a day of paint stripping with Rhodes. Howard could take the weeding. He’d like it better since it was outside.

Cooter rounded the corner by Cottage Two and waved in the direction of Mr. Rhodes, who stood, hands on hips and tool belt swinging low, like a gunfighter in the noonday sun.

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