* * *
Pat knew about my fondness for lobster, but I didn’t tell him about my other Maine obsession until we got there. I hadn’t told him because I knew what he’d say: We’ve driven for four days so you can look for a freaking bird?
I was dying to see the North Atlantic puffins, those cute little black-and-white seabirds with orange duck-feet and red beaks. On the East Coast, puffins are only found in Maine on small offshore islands, nesting in rocks. One day, Anne and I took off on a girls-only trip to Acadia National Park, where we took a sightseeing boat out to see puffins and, hopefully, catch sight of a whale. Neither Pat nor Heyward could be persuaded to join us, so I took dozens of photos to show them what they’d missed. We’d not only seen hundreds of puffins, we’d also had the thrill of spotting an enormous humpbacked whale.
On the drive home, Anne and I relived our fun day and the unexpected thrill of the whale. When I said I couldn’t wait to tell Pat, she chuckled indulgently. “I love seeing the two of you together,” she said. “I’ve never seen him so relaxed and at peace with himself.”
“This is relaxed?” I said wide-eyed. “Good-natured and easygoing, I get. Relaxed and at peace, never.”
“Oh, sweetie, you wouldn’t believe how he was before you came along. His old Atlanta gang talks about it all the time. When we knew him before, he was so volatile and unpredictable we worried constantly about him and his self-destructive tendencies. He’s a remarkably different person now. Does he even drink anymore? He’s been a heavy drinker as long as I’ve known him.”
“He seems to have gotten that under control, but he’ll still self-medicate when he gets stressed out.”
Anne cut her eyes my way before turning back to the narrow road she navigated cautiously down the rocky coast. “He told me about Susannah. That poor child! She’s a pawn in a sorry game. Surely she’ll see that as she gets older.”
“I don’t know, Anne,” I said gloomily. “She’s in her twenties now, and nothing’s changed.”
“This is upsetting you,” she noted. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Are you excited about us having lunch with Richard Russo this week? It was so nice of Pat’s friends to include us.”
Pat’s friends the Millers, two of the finest people I’ve ever met, were close friends and next-door neighbors of the Russos in Camden (a town I’d been longing to see), and they’d invited us to meet him. “I’m excited but nervous,” I admitted. “Being such an admirer of his writing, I probably won’t be able to say a word and will make a fool of myself, like I did the first time I met Pat.”
She pooh-poohed my anxiety, saying she’d met Russo at a book signing and he’d been extremely pleasant. “Don’t let Pat scare you off with his tales of the assholes he’s met,” Anne added. “Most writers are good people. I’m sure Richard Russo is the same.”
“It’s a relief to hear that he isn’t one of the crazies.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Anne said with a wry grin. “I said he was nice, not sane. All writers are pretty much crazy.”
My smile was more of a grimace. I’d heard that sentiment so often I was beginning to believe it. “I must be worse than crazy,” I blurted out. I’d been hoping for a chance to ask her something that had bothered me the whole summer. She, Pat, and I were all working on new books, but we rarely talked shop. After our outing, I felt comfortable enough to ask her advice, so I plunged in.
“The book I’m working on now, The Same Sweet Girls?” I said. “It’s about a group of women friends, something you’ve written about a lot. But the thing is, these are inspired by real people—a group of real-life friends I’ve had for years. I’m not sure I can do it.”
Anne shot me an alarmed look. “Do they know you’re writing about them?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Let me guess. Pat’s urged you to do this, right?” When I nodded, she sighed. “Oh, honey. Tread carefully. You know what that very thing has cost Pat. Beneath his tough shell he suffers more about the stuff he’s written than he’ll ever let anyone see. I worry about him. One day it’s going to take its toll.”
“You said that very thing in one of your books! And I copied it in my journal. Something like ‘You can get whatever you want from life. Take it, and pay the price.’ Do you remember that?”
“I never remember anything I’ve written. But I’m glad I said that.” She was quick to correct herself. “Or, rather, had one of my characters say it. To me, that’s the beauty of fiction. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done it too—based characters on people I know—and fictionalized plenty from my life. But it always comes with a price.”
We rode in silence for a few miles as I absorbed her words. Then Anne reached over to pat my arm. “Don’t pay any attention to me, or Pat, or anyone else. As writers we have to do what speaks the truth to us.”
“I’d much rather learn from other people’s pain than my own,” I said, only halfway joking. “Wouldn’t you?”
Anne smiled her easy smile. “Well, yeah. Too bad it doesn’t work that way, though.”
* * *
Alex and Zoe Sanders, old friends of the Siddonses, came to spend a few days in nearby Blue Hill, and the six of us got together often. The Sanders were with us the night that Pat would refer to thereafter as the time Heyward practiced dying.
Anne and Heyward had long been patrons of a place called the Lobster Pot, where we often went to dinner. It’s one of those hole-in-the-wall places that only the locals know about. Perched right on the rocky shore and open to the elements, the Lobster Pot is the real deal. Because it’s located on Little Deer Island and at the end of a dirt road, getting there’s an adventure and made going out to dinner quite the occasion. Diners who got there at the right time could watch the staff of young men hauling in buckets of clams destined for their supper plate, sea to table.
The Sanderses followed us in their car, and Pat and I picked up the Siddonses in ours. Even though Anne decided at the last minute not to go because of a headache, we stuck to the plan of taking two cars. In his seventies and not in the best of health, Heyward had difficulty with his legs and walked with a cane, so all of us squeezed into one vehicle would’ve been uncomfortable for him. It wasn’t the kind of place that took reservations, so we were lucky to get a table. Usually we sat at one of the tables overlooking the water, where we watched the sun sink over a picture-perfect view. That night it was packed, and we found ourselves seated at a table right in the middle of a noisy and festive crowd.
The dinner lived up to its billing. Our waitress was a cute young Mainer with a swishing ponytail and a thick brogue. Zoe, Alex, and I tied on paper bibs and dug into our steamed lobsters while Pat and Heyward feasted on the clam bake. At the center of the oilcloth-covered table was a tin bucket for the clam and lobster shells. With such a big crowd, it was so noisy that we had to raise our voices to be heard, but as usual, the two raconteurs at our table took over. I’d considered Pat the best storyteller I’d ever heard until I met Alex, who gave him a run for his money. Between the two of them, we were entertained not only through the main course but also through the blueberry pie à la mode afterward. Laughing and talking with our voices raised over the clamor, Pat, Alex, Zoe, and I failed to notice that Heyward had gone quiet.
I was seated closest to Heyward and saw that his head was bent slightly forward, as though he were studying his shoes. I nudged him. “Heyward?” When he didn’t respond, I leaned in closer. At first I thought he’d dozed off, as my daddy was apt to do after a full meal. But to my knowledge, Daddy had never done so sitting straight up at the table with a piece of half-eaten pie on his plate. “Heyward?” I repeated.
With a heavy sigh, Heyward slumped forward as though he would land facedown in his pie. “Oh God—Pat!” I cried out as I jumped up. My ladder-back chair hit the floor, but the crowd of diners was so noisy that no one noticed. Neither did my tablemates, who were laughing at the punch line of one of Alex’s stories. In less than a
heartbeat I was behind Heyward’s chair and had grabbed him from behind, chair and all, to keep him from falling over. This time I yelled it: “PAT!”
Pat was on his feet quickly and ran around the table to grab Heyward, who was too heavy for me to hold upright. The chair, Heyward, and I were all about to topple when Pat came to the rescue. Zoe and Alex both jumped up as well, and Zoe’s hand flew to her mouth. All the color had left Heyward’s face, and I was sure he was dead. Oh Lord, poor Anne! What would we tell her? One minute her husband was bright-eyed and full of life, laughing and enjoying himself, the next minute he just keeled over. “HELP!” I yelled out, looking around desperately. Unbelievably, the diners continued their conversations, oblivious to the drama going on at our table.
Zoe ran to the front of the restaurant where we’d stood to wait for a table. “Call 911,” I heard her yelling, as Alex came around to help Pat with Heyward. Pat’s eyes met mine and I mouthed, He’s dead, isn’t he? In response, Pat nodded his head sadly. I knew he was thinking the same as me: What on earth would we tell Annie? Tears started rolling down my cheeks, but I was in such a state of shock I barely noticed.
The owner, a very large man clad in a very large apron, came running over with Zoe. He’d known Heyward, a longtime regular customer, for years. At last we had the attention of the crowded restaurant. After leaning over Heyward to shake his shoulder, the poor owner raised his head to call out the classic cry: “Is there a doctor in the house?”
There was a stunned silence when not a person in the building moved. Then a woman from one of the nearby tables pushed back her chair and hurried over. “I’m a registered nurse,” she said. We breathed a collective sigh of relief as she instructed Pat and Alex to lay Heyward out on the floor. Because the place was so crowded, this took a bit of doing. The woman loosened Heyward’s collar and placed her ear over his heart. I expected her to start mouth-to-mouth, but instead she sat up and looked at the owner. “Have you called an ambulance?” she asked, and the man nodded glumly. It was apparent to all of us, however, that an undertaker would be more appropriate.
Without thinking I sank to my knees and leaned over Heyward, stroking his colorless face and telling him he was going to be all right, even as tears rolled down my cheeks. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive, the whole restaurant froze in place. The staff had come to stand outside the kitchen, and I saw our young waitress wringing her hands. I figured that she’d never before served a customer who died in the middle of the blueberry pie. It took forever for the ambulance to get there, but everyone maintained a reverent silence throughout the wait. The only noise was the rustle of feet and hushed whispers of the horrified onlookers. Folks resumed their places but not a one of them picked up their forks to continue eating.
Pat and Zoe had joined me to kneel beside Heyward. Pat took his friend’s lifeless hand and rubbed it, looking down at him tearfully. Alex was up and down like a jack-in-the-box, alternating between going outside to check for the ambulance and returning to stand around helplessly with his hands in his pockets. Like me, Zoe was sobbing and had gone from trying to comfort Heyward to comforting Pat and me. The nurse did what she could, but a pall had fallen over the whole scene.
Suddenly the ambulance was there and the room bustled with activity again. Six muscular paramedics came in and took over. When they got Heyward strapped on a gurney, a pathway cleared for them to carry him out. Most of the diners got to their feet again. We worked it out quickly that Zoe and Alex would follow the ambulance so that Pat and I could stop and pick up Anne. Since Heyward was still alive, though barely, he’d be taken to the Blue Hill hospital, several winding and two-laned miles away.
Although the owner tried to shoo him off, Pat stopped long enough to pay our bill and to shake the hands of the staff. As we started out the door, both of us paused for a wave of gratitude for our wide-eyed fellow diners. Standing tall, Pat took it a step further. Holding his hand high like a traffic cop, he said in a booming voice, “Men and women of Maine, you were truly magnificent tonight, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You proved to me what I had heard for a long time, that the state of Maine produces some of the finest sons and daughters in the nation. It is a privilege to be in your state, and we couldn’t be more grateful for your care and concern during this sad and unfortunate time.”
The room burst into applause, and those who weren’t already on their feet stood as they applauded, calling out well wishes after us as we drove away into the darkness.
The doctors would never know for sure what happened to Heyward that night. Whether a small stroke or a prolonged TIA, it would remain a mystery. Whatever, he was awake and alert by the time we brought Anne to the hospital, fearing and assuming the worst. Anne burst into tears of relief as soon as she saw him sitting up in a hospital bed, looking dazed but very much alive. Pat and I hugged each other, then turned to embrace Zoe and Alex, all of us giddy with relief.
“Thank God you were only practicing dying, Heyward,” Pat said. “Now we’ll know what to do when the real thing comes.”
A couple of days later Pat and I were in the grocery store. As we gathered the ingredients to make soup for Heyward’s homecoming from the hospital, a well-dressed young woman approached our shopping cart. Eyeing Pat, she worked up the nerve to ask, “You’re Pat Conroy, aren’t you?”
When Pat acknowledged that he was indeed the great man, the woman shook his hand. She introduced herself as a fellow southerner vacationing in Blue Hill from Atlanta.
Then she surprised us by asking, “How’s your friend doing?” When Pat looked puzzled, she went on to explain that she was at the Lobster Pot with family and friends the other night when Heyward fell ill. She clasped her hands in relief when Pat told her that Heyward was fine, and that we were preparing dinner for his homecoming from the hospital.
“I told my family that I was sure you were Pat Conroy,” the woman went on to say. “We were surprised when so many people sitting around us agreed. Everyone recognized you from your picture on the cover of Beach Music, which a lot of us had brought along to read on our vacation.”
Pat tried to look modest, and the woman bade us goodbye. She’d only taken a few steps when she paused, then turned back around. With a shy grin she said, “Mr. Conroy, your speech at the restaurant was one of the most stirring things I’ve ever heard, especially your praise for the good folks of Maine. But I have to tell you, after y’all left, we got to talking.” She put a hand to her mouth, giggling. “And there wasn’t a single Mainer eating at the restaurant that night. We were all tourists.”
Chapter 12
A Writer’s Life, Here, There, and Everywhere
The first books Pat and I wrote during our years together were released within a few months of each other in 2002, The Sunday Wife and My Losing Season, and our crazy-busy life got even crazier and even busier. We were ships passing in the night. I returned after weeks on book tour just in time to say goodbye to Pat, whose own tour was starting. Each of us published five books during our eighteen-plus years together; thankfully it wasn’t until 2013 that two others came out the same year, The Death of Santini and Moonrise. Even so, tours for paperback editions plus the speech circuit caused us to travel separately more than either of us liked. Although it got easier over time, initially I was totally unprepared.
Because my first book had been published by a small press with a limited publicity budget, I’d done very little touring. Seems like the farthest I went was southeast Texas. But everything was different with my second novel and the ones to follow, where I toured for several weeks. At first I was excited. A rookie writer imagines a book tour to be glamorous, pictures the paparazzi swarming with flashbulbs flashing as soon as you land. A limousine awaits to escort you to a five-star hotel where champagne chills as you freshen up before your appearance on Good Morning America. Your bodyguard (to clear a path through your adoring fans) is a dead ringer for Kevin Costner.
Maybe it happens that way with other writers, I don�
�t know. A veteran at such things, Pat tried to prepare me. “The best thing about touring is meeting your readers,” he told me. Otherwise, it was much more grueling than glamorous—much more. As I packed, he cautioned me to write my room number on the key flap. “But that’s not safe!” I protested. “Just wait,” he said with a knowing look. “You’re not only going to forget your room, you’ll forget which city you’re in.”
I laughed him off until I’d been on the road about three weeks on tour for The Sunday Wife, and I found myself in a different place each night. One morning I woke up in a featureless hotel room sleep deprived and in a panic. I couldn’t remember where I was. The bedside phone only had the hotel name and the number on it, which was useless because the area code was unfamiliar. The hotel booklet was missing. Even going over my pages-long schedule didn’t help because I didn’t know the date, and I couldn’t remember where I’d been the night before. Had it been Nashville or Memphis? I always got those two mixed up. One had country music and the other the blues, but which one had the hotel with the ducks?
Too embarrassed to ask anyone at the front desk when I went down for breakfast, I tried eavesdropping on the folks at the nearest table. Yankees! Good Lord, was I in Cincinnati already? It was a leftover Charlotte newspaper I spotted that put my mind at ease, until I began fretting on the way back to my room. What if someone from Charlotte had been traveling and left it on the table? Might’ve been left over from yesterday, which would mean the date was wrong too. Oh well. My publicist would be checking in soon to see how things were going, and I’d ask her. Surely in her business she’d heard it all.
Tell Me a Story Page 19
