The manuscripts almost always came with stories of the writer’s disappointing foray into mainstream publishing. Many readers assumed that Story River only published first-time novelists, but that was far from true. Pat would read a wonderful manuscript by a published author who’d done quite well with previous books and be shocked to learn the book had been turned down by his or her New York publisher. So-called literary fiction doesn’t always hit the bestseller list. It’s a two-edged sword, of course; publishers have to sell books to survive. More and more, university presses are taking up the slack. During Pat’s tenure and under the guidance of USC’s gifted publisher, Jonathan Haupt, Story River published about twenty novels, many of them winners of prestigious literary awards.
It amused me to read in the paper that Pat was working for the USC Press. I held out my hand to him, palm up. “Hand it over, buddy,” I teased. “Lemme see that big paycheck.” His work for USC was strictly pro bono, and his payment came from the pride he took in his writers’ successes. He sometimes groused that Jonathan was demanding too much of him, and that he’d never get his own book finished. Unfortunately, Pat had a valid point—there’s just so much time in the day. As much as he loved doing it, his work with Story River threatened to consume him. I tried to help him find some middle ground.
“You’ve launched Story River,” I argued. “You don’t have to go to every signing with every author. They’re doing well—let them fly on their own.” Although he agreed with me, easing up proved difficult for him. He was fully invested and determined to see it through.
The thing was, Pat had started writing a new book that I’d read with great excitement. As much as I applauded Story River, I was ready for a new Conroy novel, and even more so after reading what he was working on. Some of my favorite stories Pat told me had to do with the two years he spent teaching at Beaufort High before going to Daufuskie. “You’ve got to write about that, Babezee,” I’d said for years, and he’d promised to do so one day.
That day had finally come, and Pat had started the book about his first teaching job. Fresh out of college, he’d taught with three other young male teachers, and the stories of their bumbling through their first year in the classroom were both hilarious and heartwarming. After Pat wrote a chapter, he’d give it to me to proofread before sending it to Margaret, a local journalist who did some of his research. Margaret also offered to type his manuscripts because no one else but me could read his handwriting. I’d learned to decipher it over the years, but it’d gotten decidedly worse with age. (Like everything else does!) Often I had to consult with the man himself. Pat would scowl at his handwriting and was apt to say, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Aw, hell I don’t know what I meant. Just take the whole damn sentence out.”
Each time he gave me a section to proof before giving it to Margaret, I’d get more excited. As the plot took form, I simply couldn’t wait for the next installment. It was that good. One thing for sure, the new book was destined to be one of his best. I saw it as The Lords of Discipline meets The Water Is Wide, with elements of the Vietnam subplot in The Prince of Tides.
But Pat’s schedule was stretched too thin for him to do much writing, no matter how I pleaded with him to make it top priority. And it was about to get even busier. One day he came in from having lunch with Jonathan Haupt, looking dour. “Jonathan’s got this wild idea, and he’s enlisted Bonnie Hargrove’s help with it. But I’ve told him to forget it.”
“What on earth?” I asked warily. Bonnie was director of USCB’s Performing Arts Center, so I figured it’d be something big.
“They want to do a festival in Beaufort this October to celebrate my seventieth birthday.”
“Pat! What a lovely idea.”
He looked at me as though I’d suggested he take a plunge in Battery Creek butt naked. “You don’t even acknowledge your birthday, Helen Keller. How’d you like it if we had your seventieth and invited the whole blamed town?”
“Too late,” I replied. “I had mine last year. You married an older woman, remember?”
“Yeah and I’ll be divorcing one if you encourage them in this.”
“Pat! It’ll be great.”
Scowling, he stalked out of the room. Over his shoulder, he called out, “I ain’t doing it. And you can tell Haupt to kiss my ass.”
* * *
Jonathan and Bonnie were brave souls. Ignoring Pat’s protests, they went ahead with plans for a literary festival / birthday celebration as close to Pat’s actual birthday, October 26, 2015, as they could schedule it. When various writer friends accepted their invitations to speak, along with some of the actors who’d been in Pat’s movies, excitement began to build. Tickets went on sale and events quickly sold out. Pat kept up his grumbling, but I knew him well. Grousing aside, I could tell that the idea was growing on him. He’d never admit it, but it was obvious that he was even a little bit pleased.
One thing about the celebration filled Pat with both anxiety and excitement. He’d invited Susannah, his estranged daughter, to come, and she’d accepted. In August, Pat had seen her for the first time in sixteen years. We’d heard through a friend in Atlanta that Susannah was working in administration at Emory Cancer Center and had moved out of her mother’s house. Megan did some sleuthing and found the address, so the next time Pat and I were in Atlanta, he left a note on her door. He’d left too many at her mother’s Atlanta house to have any expectations, but this time Susannah responded, and they’d met for lunch near Emory. Afterward Pat returned to the waterfall house in Highlands to report to me and our friends Janis and Wendel Owens, who were visiting at the time, that the lunch hadn’t gone well. It had been awkward and tense, but later Pat and Susannah began to correspond by email. And she agreed to come to Beaufort for the birthday celebration.
I reminded Pat that the love of a parent and child wasn’t something that was easily destroyed, no matter what. “Huh! Could’ve fooled me,” he joked, but his pleasure in reuniting with his daughter was stronger than his anxiety.
The seventieth birthday celebration turned out to be a marvelous and unforgettable event, made even more so in the wake of what followed. The festivities went on for three days, with everyone in high spirits and enjoying themselves, even Pat. All the family who could make the trip were there, and for the first time in too many years, all four of Pat’s daughters were together again. His sister Kathy made Pat a quilt from scraps of his old shirts that I’d supplied her. Embroidered with significant dates, the quilt squares were set off by the background of Citadel blue. When the quilt was unveiled in the lobby of the Performing Arts Center, Pat’s jaw dropped. Kathy’s gift was an amazing work of art, but more than that, an intense labor of love. “It’s all too much,” Pat said, and his voice broke. Among the special guests were Michael O’Keefe, who’d played a young Pat in The Great Santini movie, and David Keith, who played Will McLean, the character based on Pat in The Lords of Discipline.
The grand finale of the weekend came on the last evening when Pat got up to say a few words in closing, totally unplanned. Although he kept choking up, he gave a moving talk expressing gratitude for his readers and his career, which he said was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined. For those few moments of his impromptu speech, the wry, sardonic Pat Conroy who’d always had trouble letting down his guard bared his soul. The prolonged standing ovation that followed almost brought Pat to his knees. I’ve never seen him so touched, or so humbled. It was later, after the heartbreak of the next few months, that it hit me like a punch in the gut. With the final words he gave at his birthday celebration, Pat had delivered his own eulogy.
Pat could never stay sappy for long, however. The old sarcastic guy who was more familiar to us quickly resurfaced. Offstage, Jonathan told Pat that the event had been such a success, he and Bonnie had decided to have a Pat Conroy Literary Festival the following year as well. Pat gave Jonathan his cold blue stare. “Over my dead body,” he said.
I recoiled when Jonathan repeated t
he story to me the following year as they began to plan the next festival. “Oh God, Jonathan!” I said, wincing. “That’s horrible. Please don’t repeat it to anyone.” Jonathan looked at me with a knowing smile. “Now tell me the truth,” he said. “Who would laugh at the macabre irony more than Pat?” I had to admit he was right. One of the things I miss most about Pat is his dark, cringeworthy humor.
* * *
After the birthday celebration, Pat kept up his busy schedule of appearing at book signings for Story River authors. He looked so exhausted, however, that I talked him into going to Highlands earlier than we’d planned for our Thanksgiving visit. Getting away from Beaufort and the constant demands on his time was the only way he could get any rest. We couldn’t stay as long as I would’ve liked because he had a trip after Thanksgiving, another event with one of his Story River authors. But both of us needed a break.
In Highlands, it became obvious that Pat was more exhausted than I’d realized. I persuaded him to use the time to catch up on his reading, the only thing that really relaxed him. He spent a lot of time in the recliner with a heating pad on his back. Because lower back pain was nothing new, I wasn’t surprised that it’d flared up again, considering how hectic his schedule had been.
Neither did it surprise me that he wasn’t as interested in the dishes we’d prepared for the Thanksgiving feast. I’m more of a traditionalist, happy to stick with turkey and the usual fixings, while Pat liked searching for new recipes. I’d packed some foodie magazines with his other reading material. And he half-heartedly flipped through a couple of mags then asked what I’d planned. The Mannings, our hosts that year, were doing the turkey while the rest of us would bring whatever side dishes we chose.
“Unless you come up with something more exciting,” I told him, “then it’ll be cornbread dressing, cranberry sauce, and sweet ’taters.”
Pat put the magazines aside. “Let’s stick with that, then.”
I leaned over and nuzzled his neck. “You’re still worn out, aren’t you, Babezee?”
“Yeah,” he said with a frown. “But I should be working on my book instead of lazing around reading.”
“No, you should not!” I gave him a little shake. “You need to sit right here and do nothing. Don’t worry about helping me with the food. I can do it with my eyes closed.”
He thought a minute before saying, “It’s all yours.”
I got up to start supper without any alarm at Pat’s unusual lethargy. Nor did I have any when he asked for soup instead of the steak he’d requested. “It’s more of a soup night,” he said casually, as he built a fire. We were staying at a friend’s house, a wonderfully serene place with a native-stone fireplace and stunning mountain views. Although it was freezing-arse cold, we bundled up and went to the screen porch to watch the sun sink into the mountaintops. Later we sat in front of a crackling fire to eat vegetarian chili with homemade bread and Amish butter. Warm, cozy, and content, we agreed that life was good.
Things got even better at the Thanksgiving dinner, held at the Mannings’ spectacular home high atop Kettle Rock Mountain. Pat was his usual jovial self, talking and joking with Jim Landon, George Lanier, and Claude Sullivan; hugging on and enjoying the company of their lovely wives and daughters. (After using the whole gang as characters in Moonrise, I was grateful they were still speaking to me.) I noted, and not for the first time, that Pat was particularly at ease with our Highlands friends. He loved each of them individually and as a congenial group when we got together. For whatever reason, he not only socialized more in Highlands but also seemed to enjoy himself more. At most social gatherings, I was trained to be on the lookout for the restless signals that he was ready to leave. That Thanksgiving, any niggling worries I had at the back of my mind about Pat’s exhaustion dissipated, and we stayed late.
The feeling of well-being carried me through the rest of our time in the mountains. The weekend after Thanksgiving we spent watching football games on TV, always one of our favorite things to do. Rivalry weekend for the college teams, and we planned our time—and meals—accordingly. The big game for me was Auburn-Alabama, which Pat loved to tease me about. “Every year I pray that Bama wins,” he’d tell folks with that impish twinkle in his eyes. “My bride goes into mourning if her team loses.” My retort was always the same: “Fortunately that’s a rare occurrence.” To celebrate Bama’s victory, I made Pat’s favorite pumpkin pie to top off our turkey sandwiches. Later when I looked back on that time, I’d remember pumpkin pie as the last food Pat really enjoyed.
We left Highlands to go our separate ways, Pat to Florida for his next gig and me back to South Carolina. I’d gotten exasperated with Pat before I left, but my argument had fallen on deaf ears. He’d made up his mind to drive straight to Pensacola instead of breaking up the ten-hour trip by staying overnight on the way. Even I, who have no history of back problems, would be stiff and sore after such a long drive, I argued. He had no business doing anything to make his back worse. But would Mr. Stubborn listen to me? He called after his arrival late that night to say I’d been right. His back was killing him, and he should’ve heeded my advice. I felt no vindication, just regret that he’d been too stubborn to listen to reason. For the past week I’d witnessed his grimaces of pain with every movement, his jaw clenched in agony. I’d tried every rub the Highlands drugstore had to offer, but nothing helped to ease the pain.
Pat’s trip, to help promote our friend Katherine Clark’s latest book, began in Pensacola, expanded into the Mobile area, then culminated in New Orleans. When he called to suggest that I fly down to meet him in New Orleans, I hesitated. It was the first week of December, always one of our busiest months, and I had dozens of things to do. Pat knew the perfect bait to lure me, though. A friend of Katherine’s had offered us their guesthouse in the Garden District. As icing on the cake, we could add a visit with our close friend Janis Owens on the way home. The Owenses had moved to Virginia but would be at their house in Florida then. Janis’d been on the program at the birthday celebration, but it’d been such a madhouse we’d spent very little time together. Pat knew how much I missed her, so with those enticements, I flew into New Orleans on Thursday.
That Friday night, after the event at the Garden District Bookstore, Pat and I joined Katherine; her husband, Brandon; and their extended New Orleans family for dinner at a restaurant that only the locals knew about. Since my arrival Pat and I had pretty much done our own thing. That day he’d spoken at a private school, so I’d taken a trolley to the museum. I’d been enthralled with the museum’s unique sculpture garden and had shared my photos with Pat as we dressed for the evening. Instead of politely scrolling through them, he’d taken his time with each photo, asked questions, and seemed genuinely interested. Next time we came to New Orleans, he told me, he had to see the sculptures for himself. Next time, we said.
At dinner Pat and I were seated at opposite ends of the long table, where everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, comparing orders, chatting away. After dinner we were saying our goodbyes when Katherine pulled me aside and handed me Pat’s dinner in a carryout box. “I’m worried about him,” she said, her brow furrowed. She went on to tell me that he had not eaten one bite. “To tell you the truth, he hasn’t been himself this whole time,” she added. There was no mistaking the concern in her voice. She said that even Brandon, a doctor who usually kept his opinions to himself unless dealing with a patient, had commented on Pat’s lethargy and lack of appetite. I tried to assure her that it was just exhaustion, but her frown deepened. “I hope that’s all it is,” she murmured ominously.
The next day proved that Katherine’s concern was far from unwarranted. Her in-laws were hosting a shindig during the SEC championship game, Bama versus the Florida Gators. Another way Pat had lured me down, by saying we’d get to watch the big game together. I’d replied that he knew the way to my heart.
I was getting dressed for the party, jeans and a Bama shirt, when Pat told me to go without him. “No way!�
�� I protested. “We’re watching it together.” I studied him carefully before saying, “You’re not well, are you?” Pat shook his head and admitted he hadn’t felt well lately, despite his assurances to the contrary. He asked me to call Katherine with our regrets, and to tell her we’d get together for breakfast the next day, on our way out of town.
He called off the breakfast get-together as well, which worried Katherine even more. “I knew he wasn’t well,” she cried, “but he wouldn’t admit it.” He and I left early to drive to Janis’s place near Gainesville, another long trip. When Pat asked me to drive, I knew he had to be feeling bad. Janis confirmed my fears when she, like Katherine, pulled me aside to ask about him. “Pat looks like puredee shit,” she whispered. “What on earth happened? He was doing so well! Everybody at the birthday party talked about how great he looked.”
I sighed and rubbed my face wearily. “I kept thinking he was just tired from all the birthday stuff, but it’s been over a month now.”
“Think you can get him to the doctor when y’all get home?” Janis asked.
“If I have to hog-tie him,” I promised.
* * *
Christmas was on us before we knew it. It hadn’t been necessary to hog-tie Pat to get him to see Dr. Laffitte; he’d gone willingly, another worrisome sign. His appetite was off, and as my grandmother used to say, he felt peaked (pronounced pee-ked in the South). Whenever he went to Mina for exercise, she sent him home early with some vitamin concoction or tonic she’d prepared to perk him up. Dr. Laffitte took a more wait-and-see attitude, unable to find anything wrong. A blood test revealed nothing except inflammation. Most likely the reason for the back pain, Dr. Laffitte said. Because Pat had done so well for so long, none of us considered anything more serious.
Tell Me a Story Page 30
