“But what a sacrifice. I told you, Nana relies on me...”
“Nana has never relied on you for much more than your honest love and respect.” Ross fought to stifle his mounting anger, but he could not keep his mouth from trembling. “You stop this foolishness, Tracie! Release all that guilt locked up inside you. It’s making you crazy. You couldn’t have prevented your mother from choosing the destiny that ended her life. You weren’t meant to save Nana from life, a life that actually—although you see it differently—has such wealth of love that it far outweighs any poverty she has ever seen. Nana and I have talked, and I know how she feels.”
Tracie sighed long and hard, and then he looked up at all the fiction books lined horizontally along the rows of shelves.
“Is something more worrying you?”
Tracie turned his attention back to Ross. “You arranged for me to quit my job. And now we’re here in this library, and you’re claimin’ all this is my destiny. But what if I’m not good enough? What if I don’t see success? What if no publisher wants to put my book in print? What then?”
“You are going to get published. Why are you so afraid to step out with blind sight, have faith in yourself, and know that you have total control to shape your life however you wish? Especially when you are so incredibly talented and have so much to offer the world. Your insight into the injustices of the way whites have treated your people can open people’s eyes and maybe make the world a little bit better place to live.”
When Ross saw the look of trepidation on Tracie’s face, he shook his head, recalling wise words spoken to him by Maggie: “Nothin’s impossible. If you want somethin’ bad enough, you can have it.”
“Tracie, I know what it’s like to fear the unseeable. I lost one of the most successful careers that any man or woman could ever achieve, but here I am, fighting for my dream of getting it back.”
“But it’s not the same for you. You’re... different.”
“I am different?” Ross said, his words phrased as a question.
Tracie shook his head. “I can’t explain. Besides, you would never understand. Let’s just end this conversation. You wanted to show me somethin’ in this place?”
“Let me rephrase my statement,” Ross said with a knowing look. “I am different because I’m white.”
“Man, I didn’t say that. All I mean is we grew up differently.”
Ross responded with a gentle smirk. “I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Let’s say that you are actually not basing your thoughts on our difference in race. Let us say that you are implying our opportunities for obtaining success depend solely on how we grew up. To that, there is the thinnest margin of difference. The night I offered to help you get published, I revealed not only my past prejudices but my former career as a literary agent. But I did not tell you where I grew up.”
“Somewhere in rich West Hartford, I bet. I remember the day we visited Elizabeth Park, how you looked all around smilin’, as if returnin’ to the place of your roots.”
Ross continued, “Are you familiar with Main Street in Hartford? Just before crossing Westland Street? That neighborhood is my ‘roots.’ I was also raised poor, Tracie.”
“Main before Westland? That’s just a block away from Hexter Street.”
Ross fixed Tracie with a serious gaze. “Not once, while growing up, did I thank God for my white skin because I believed that it would help to ease my life’s workload. Even as a racist, I knew that my achievements were based solely on my hard work. That is what you must never forget. In the end, hard work really does pay off.”
He reached out to rub the hard, smooth spines of the books in front of him. “Yes, this is your destiny. This is what all writers aspire to—to be a part of the published world—only to, in many cases, end up sore losers. But we won’t let that happen to you, Tracie.’’
Ross took hold of Tracie’s arm, leading him farther down the narrow, dimly lit aisle. He pulled a thin, well-worn book back from the center shelf, handing it over to Tracie. The author was the famous Ernest Hemingway, and the book’s title The Old Man and the Sea.
“The difference between the loser writers and you, Tracie, is in the stories offered to the publishers. There are good stories, and then there are great storytellers. Ernest Hemingway was one of the great greats.”
Tracie paused briefly to read a little of the text of the book’s pages before looking back up at Ross. His look was serious and proud. “Sure, Hemingway had his chance, and now’s mine. By the time my manuscript is finished, I’ll show all those would-be authors who was born to publish.”
Ross’s bare living room easily accommodated Tracie’s new office. The little metal desk was centered below the double windows, looking out over the animated housing project. Besides the computer, the desk held a dictionary, stapler, and several writing pads. The two drawers were filled with pens, pencils, paperclips, and other miscellaneous necessities. A laser printer sat on a side wing of the desk.
The men sat in front of the desk as Ross addressed Tracie’s new writing schedule. “It will be much the same as getting up every morning to go work at Heavenly Delight, except you won’t need your car. The hours you work must revolve around my schedule, so that when you are here typing, I won’t be in your way. You must have total solitude.”
Tracie reached out to move the computer mouse around on its pad. And then he smiled at the arrow as it moved around on the monitor. He was still getting used to the fact that he was not at Heavenly Delight, working, but in Ross’s apartment. No, correction, he was at work in his own office, which just happened to be in Ross’s apartment. He was also still accepting the idea that all of his actions, from mere discussions to buying office accessories, were necessary to keep him moving forward toward his goal. Writing, as he saw with his new eyes, was more than just a hobby: It was a job, a career. After all the time he had spent dreaming about getting published, it wasn’t until Ross entered his life that he began to turn his dreaming into doing.
Ross reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a single key, which he let drop onto the desk with a clink. “This is for you, so you can get in when I’m not here.”
“This all sounds good, but I’m tellin’ you—I’m no fast typer. It could take two weeks to finish typin’ one chapter.”
Ross raked the fingers of his hand back through his long hair. He was briefly reminded to visit a barber. “You have never written on a full-time schedule, but this will be an invaluable learning experience. As a writer, you must be able to communicate your ideas in a form that is typed and clearly easy to read. That’s what publishers expect.”
“What will you do in the meantime? Wait for me to finish typing? Lord, please be an example of patience for Ross for the long wait ahead.” As if in church, Tracie raised his hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture of praise.
Ross could not stifle his outburst of laughter. “Stop that! You will do fine typing. And the longer the better, because I’ve been out of the world of publishing for quite a while now. The editors who were my regular contacts may not be around anymore. Excelling in publishing really is about staying abreast of what is happening right now. I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Ross stood up, made a few thoughtful steps, and then turned back in Tracie’s direction. “But you will be thrilled to know that I have already started typing. See there, in front of you? That is how far I got.”
At the very back of the desk sat a small pile of paper, which Tracie pulled toward him. The top page looked like this:
Tracie Walker
125 Hexter Street
Hartford, Connecticut 06112
(860) 522-8051
One People, One Nation, One Peace
A novel by Tracie Walker
Proposed Length: 70,000 words
“Ross... It looks so professional.” Slowly, Tracie flipped through the manuscript’s more than two hundred pages. “Without you, I would still be a dreamer. I just can’t think of a better w
ord than... thanks.”
“I will not accept your thanks,” Ross returned quickly. “Not until you are traveling to different stores across the country, signing copies of your book for all your many readers.”
Ross felt a lot of fear about reconnecting with the publishing world and apprehension about the adversity that he would undoubtedly face. He had left publishing on bad terms, a virtual outcast, and he didn’t want Maggie and Tracie to know about his fear.
Early on, Ross had worked hard to live apart from blacks, as had many other whites he knew. However, along with his court conviction came rejection by his peers at every level. No one wanted to admit affiliation with Ross, much less associate with him. These former friends now chose to remain in the shadows.
Shadow people were loathsome hypocrites because their wrongdoings faked the appearance of being carried out with good intentions. A shadow person would reject well-qualified minority applicants with the excuse that the right person for employment with their national corporation must know how to speak at least three languages. A shadow person would read an award-worthy manuscript by an aspiring minority author but return it with a rejection letter because the story did not cater to the popular white culture.
Ross could not, in truth and fairness, accuse every person from his past of living in the shadows of prejudice. Theodore Worthy, an officer of a prosperous bank, raised tens of thousands of dollars each year for inner-city children. Veronica Bloom, whose first art book Ross had sold, offered original paintings to be auctioned for art scholarships. Ross could recall several others who had given generously of both their money and time to help others.
His greatest desire now became reconnecting with those people who cared enough to ignore his sins and accept the changed man he had become. Where to start? he wondered, sitting alone at the desk. The cursor blinked at the bottom of the computer monitor, where he had just finished proofing edits on Tracie’s earlier typing session.
Although it was nearing the midnight hour, Ross could not calm his racing thoughts. He was normally burned out by this time of night, having put in long hours at Heavenly Delight and then returning home to work on the manuscript.
Swiveling around in the chair, he used his cane to help support him as he stood. With quick limps, he exited the living room and, just after entering the dimly lit hallway, turned right into his bedroom.
Reaching up to the overhead shelf in the closet, he felt across clothes of various fabrics. When his hand touched a smooth, hard object, his plastic Rolodex, he grabbed it toward him and carried it back to the desk in the living room.
Someone will want to speak to me. Wonder what has happened to me. Wonder if I am still scouting talent. Ross flipped through the alphabetized index cards on which were typed the many names of his former business contacts. He stopped and stared at the card for Sandy Brown.
“Sandy...” He whispered her name, as if it had magical powers. She had first read and praised the manuscript authored by Angela Terry, who became Ross’s first successful client. He and Sandy, the agency’s senior editor, had worked harmoniously together in the successful sale of other manuscripts after Frank’s unfortunate death.
“Where are you?” His eyes rolled across her home telephone number at the bottom of the card. And then he glanced over at the telephone sitting on the front corner of the desk.
Ross dialed Sandy’s telephone number, uncertain as to what would come of the spontaneous action, expecting something big although not clearly defined. He listened to the constant ringing on the other end of the line until he heard a click, followed by a recorded voice embedded too deeply into his heart to ever forget. Sandy’s message requested the name, telephone number, and the time of the call.
“Sandy... It’s Ross Crass. I hope you can find time to return my call.” Then, after quickly recording the other information, he replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle.
The weeks before Thanksgiving brought Ross no closer to reestablishing his old publishing contacts than the first night he had called Sandy. Every road turned up a rejection so depressing that he did not report his poor progress to Tracie and Maggie. No one returned his calls, in spite of the positive messages he left:
“Hi, Mark. Guess who? It’s your favorite agent, Ross. I have a new talent discovery, whose manuscript is a must for you to read...”
“Elizabeth, how exciting to be back in contact with you, after being away for a spell. I’m returning with a new client, who has just completed his first novel. Let’s discuss it over lunch...”
Kyle Rudolph, an editor for a large publisher, was in his office the day Ross called, and he answered the telephone in person. He immediately became abrupt. “There is no need for you to contact me again, Ross. We have nothing to talk about. Goodbye.”
The day before Thanksgiving, Ross finally came clean with Tracie. The men were sitting on one of two long, black padded benches inside Dope Cuts barbershop, which was crowded with its regular customers. In the shop on the main floor of a brownstone in the middle of the city, four popular young barbers, Miles, Dre, Tito, and Ricky, served most of the black and Hispanic males in the community.
“Tracie, when I talked about locating a barber, I was looking for something a little more... I mean, can any of these men style my kind of hair?”
Tracie winked his eye at Ross. “Trust me, you’re goin’ leave out here lookin’ like five million bucks.”
Ross looked out at all the other faces: men jabbering about every topic from last night’s televised sports to music and politics, single mothers wearing murderous expressions at having to wait to get their sons’ hair cut, children running around after each other or crying because their parents wouldn’t let them buy snacks from the vending machines.
“Tracie, I don’t see any white men here for a haircut. This may not be a good idea.”
“You need a different look,” Tracie said confidently. “You’re only twenty-nine, but you look older. This place can help you. Can’t you—just this once—ease up on a small part of your conservative ways?”
Ross did not say yes or no, he just shrugged, and plunged into the difficult subject. “I’ve started working toward selling your story. I pulled out the Rolodex and reviewed the names of my old contacts.”
Tracie flashed an expectant expression, but Ross’s response was bittersweet. All of Tracie’s hopes and dreams were now in Ross’s hands. Could he make them come true? That thought put Ross in an awkward place, especially with his recent chain of failures, because he did not want to let Tracie down. That might be the final rejection that completely broke Tracie’s spirit and caused him to give up writing altogether.
“You call anyone?”
Ross nodded. “I leave messages, but no one returns my calls. Although it’s what I predicted, the actual experience is... It threatens to break one’s spirit.”
Tracie fought his inner disappointment to maintain his smile for Ross. “Who cares about those who say no to us? In the end, we’ll win. We’ll get published. And those losers will remember you came to them for help.”
“It’s ridiculous. I contacted one editor who had picked up dozens of manuscripts from me in the past. Tracie, he spoke to me as if I were his worst enemy. The jerk told me not to call him again.”
“What’s our next move?”
“I am totally clueless.” A line of children ran past where Ross sat, and he was pleasantly distracted from his thoughts as he remembered why Tracie and he were at the barbershop.
“Tracie, tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Let’s forget about our business goals and concentrate on what good has been given us thus far.”
Ross returned home a new man. Tracie’s favorite barber, Miles, an extraordinary talent, had cut Ross’s hair very low on top with the sides cut down even lower, to just a shadow of hair. But the haircut was not flamboyant, and Ross was thrilled with his new look.
He smiled into the bathroom mirror, tracing his sideburns with his forefingers. In the barbershop, T
racie had told Ross what he thought of his conservative ways. Now, Ross considered the true importance of that comment. Simply put, he had been slipping back to his old self fast—the work-obsessed man he was before meeting Tracie and Maggie. Working long hours at Heavenly Delight and then returning home to labor on Tracie’s manuscript—he must seriously learn to control that. This new revelation pleased him.
“I am eternally thankful for newness,” Ross said. He had new friendships with Tracie and Maggie. He ate new and delicious foods. Even an experience as minor as throwing a basketball at a hoop was wonderfully new to him. Still, there were so many things left undiscovered that Ross was all too anxious to get back on track.
He heard the telephone and tore away from the mirror. Hurrying to the living room, he answered the call on the seventh ring.
“Ross?”
The familiar voice on the telephone rushed over him like energy from a powerful explosion. It felt as if his heart were racing toward the point of cardiac arrest. He was overwhelmed with excitement.
“Sandy?”
“Dear God... my joy! Where the hell are you, Ross?”
Ross was so nervous he began to tremble uncontrollably. Slowly lowering down onto the chair in front of the desk, he let his cane fall to the floor. He fought to continue the conversation, but a lump in his throat would not allow the words to escape from his gaping mouth.
“Speak!” Sandy’s voice was strained with desperate concern and curiosity, as if she was a mother who had just been contacted by a runaway child.
“I’m in Hartford.” But Ross could not continue, nor could he control his emotions or the tears that filled his wide green eyes.
“I understand,” Sandy said. Her sniffles told Ross that she was also crying. “This talking on the telephone is no good. I want to see you. Where are you? I’ll come to you.”
A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series Page 12
